Deathwatch
by Tidwell
Summary: Are the bizarre episodes House is experiencing real or hallucinations brought about by an as yet undiagnosed medical condition? The answers don't come easy. Spooky stuff. HouseWilson friendshp. Chapter 13 is up. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Being a great fan of speculative fiction, I thought I'd try out a House story in the genre. Concrits, comments, reviews are always welcome.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-1-**

_Yeah, you've got trouble, boy. Trouble with a capital T..._

The first thing to clue him in is The Smell.

He raises his head, pausing _Godzilla Wars _on his PSP without looking at the keypad...and sniffs the air. The Smell (which is really more of a stench) is, for some reason, maddeningly familiar.

_ Pret-ty darn unsettling, eh?. Obviously The Smell is no floral bouquet. But you've smelled stink before. You're a doctor, after all. Feces, vomit, three week old 'wake up from a coma' breath. All run of the mill; all most unpleasant. Just like this. So why is it making your stomach clench? Why is that shivery bad feeling traveling up your spine like an electric current?_

"Well, maybe," House thinks, "you're just...losing it." A stench is a stench is a stench. Right? Hey, maybe the plumbing exploded in one of the bathrooms and _that's _what's making the whole place smell like...

No. Deep down House knows there are no burst pipes, no unfortunate lavatory accidents.

_Something else..._

Like a determined bloodhound, he sniffs the air again and pushes himself slowly from his seat. The chair squeals its protest, reminding him that the fool from maintenance still hasn't come around with the WD40. Grumbling a short, snappy diatribe about incompetence breeding incompetence, he eschews his cane and hobbles around his office. His gaze lights here, there, on any area where a stink this horrendous might originate.

..._somewhere else..._

He pushes his face into a row of books on his shelf and inhales deeply. _Ink, paper, leather bindings_. Nothing of a a perturbing olfactory nature here. He heads for his PC, leans over to take a good whiff behind it and is rewarded with a snout full of dust. He coughs, sneezes; his left foot kicks, the toe of his sneaker makes a satisfying connection with the leg of the computer desk. _Goddamn!_ When he gets done with them, the shit for brains maintenance crew will wish they'd stayed in Mexico or Paraguay or whatever backwards country they emigrated from.

_Forget it._

He returns to his desk, grabs his cane, sneezes loudly twice more before deciding to visit Wilson. Maybe, _hopefully_, his friend can clue him in to the origin of The Smell.

House uses his cane to slide open the glass door leading to the balcony, then steps into the cool May afternoon. He derives no pleasure from the beauty of the day, the springtime greenery in the courtyard, the pink and white cherry blossoms dotting the lawn. So intent is he on his mission, he even decides to put off refilling his Vicodin scrip until after he sorts this out. Drawing in another long breath, his nostrils flare, searching for stench, his frown deepening as they find it. _But, hey, it's actually not...so...bad. _House lets himself relax just a bit, heartened to discover the annoyingly familiar smell is somewhat less potent out here.

_Who are you kidding? The fact is, it's still here. It's everywhere..._

Wilson is busy. House presses his nose against his window, unmindful of the fact there are people in his office: an elderly woman and a guy of about forty. They look like they could use a hug, a nap, a fistful of Vicodin, maybe a hefty shot of morphine...

The woman is weeping, her shoulders heave and shudder as she buries her face in the man's suit jacket. Wilson is wearing one of his most noble expressions-that doe-eyed look of woeful compassion. He takes the woman's hand, bites his lower lip and slowly raises his eyes to the window. House shrugs, beckons. Wilson scowls. The woman's sobs intensify. House can hear them through the glass. He wishes she would stop. The weeping grates on his nerves, making him want to smash his cane through the glass.

Wilson, good friend that he is, excuses himself, rounds his desk and makes it to the door. He pulls it open, then quickly (desperately) closes it behind him. A particle of the weepy sound drifts into the pleasant afternoon before dying away.

"Pathetic," House grumps.

The oncologist takes him by the arm and leads him to the center of the balcony. "Don't you have a job?" he hisses.

Scrunching his nose at the foulness, House asks, "You smell that?"

"What?"

House lifts his hands, indicating the balcony, the world, the universe. "That."

Shaking his head in bemusement, Wilson responds, "This is why you took me away from the Thorndicuts? Edna's husband just died of prostate can-"

"Tish tosh" House throws the bereaved pair a dismissive wave. They'll get over it,"

"What smell?" Wilson sniffs. "Your burger with extra onions lunch? Yeah, I do, if that's what you mean-"

"That's not what I mean." House takes a step away from him. "Take a whiff of the air."

The oncologist complies, then quirks a brow. "Nothing. Can I go now?"

Leaning against the railing, House dangles his hands over the edge and attempts to ignore the cold that is creeping through his extremities on this lovely spring afternoon. He surveys the hospital landscape, observing the comings and goings of doctors, nurses, nurses aids, the idiots who surf the net and diagnose themselves before ever reaching the clinic. He shivers, trying not to think about the fact that Wilson does not smell The Smell.

"Yeah, sure, swell, go, vamoose. Scat." _Just leave me here..._

Wilson heads back to his office, throwing House a befuddled look before gently pulling the door closed behind him.

_Now, where were we?_

_Ah, yes. _The Smell. He sets his mind to work, to think, to remember where he might have gotten a whiff of it before. And then...something drifts from the fog, a slice of memory so minute, he thinks he might have concocted it to assuage himself. He attempts to grip it with a virtual fist, to hold it, examine it. But it is slimy, mercurial, slipping away from him just as he was beginning to turn it over and over...and remember.

_ Laughter sounds from somewhere, hissing and grating like chains scraping asphalt..._

But he got enough of it to know this could be Trouble (with a capital T).

"Aww, but maybe", House thinks, "just maybe you are way off the beaten path. After all, sometimes the mind plays tricks..."

...the mind plays tricks...

Or maybe it's a brain tumor.

_Bzzzzzp! Nope. Nice try. Wanna play again? _

The Smell intensifies at the same moment his pager goes off. He holds one hand over his nose, which does nothing to mask the odor. _It is everywhere. _With a grunt, he tugs the pager from his hip pocket, and checks the screen.

**Cuddy. Office. Now.**

A small sense of relief offsets the unsettling chill that has now taken residence on his shoulders, the back of his neck, his body's nether region. Cuddy will have the answer to his ridiculous musings. The solution, of course, will be something simple, not the ridiculous notion that is slowly unfolding and sticking in his head like a bug to flypaper.

_The mind plays tricks..._

_...sometimes, perhaps. But not today._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **The Spanish in this chapter was made possible by the wonderful translation site **Babelfish.** Hopefully utilizing that site and the smidgen of six years of high school Spanish I still remember helped me get it right.

Thanks to everyone who is just reading (that's fine) or reading and reviewing (that's good too!).

**Disclaimer:** House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-2-**

The corridor is bustling with activity. Over here, two nurses rush into Room 23, their faces masks of solemn intensity. More commotion in Room 25: a small group of Plainsboro's finest work to revive some wretched wreck. An aide barrels past House with a crash cart. More rushing, pummeling footfalls. House does his best to hobble/skitter out of the way, hoping no one will grab him and attempt to do something really dumb like enlist his aid.

He keeps moving. Somewhere a monitor squeals a death knell, making the little hairs on his arms stand straight and tall. He whips his head in the general direction of the sound, but doesn't allow himself to stop, afraid what he might see will give credence to his fear. But _aww, too bad._ The Smell grabs him in a choke hold. He gags, shuts his eyes tight, sees a great gray field dotted with skulls, skeletal torsos, smoky remnants of a blaze long gone.

_Death._

His eyes snap open. His breath hitches in his throat. With one finger he wrenches his collar away from his neck and stumbles back into the wall. His breaths escape him now in slow, sharp bursts.

_Keep breathing, just keep breathing._

"Dr. House." A pudgy nurse, whose name escapes him grabs his arm. "Can I help?"

Removing his finger from his collar, he leans forward, so close he is almost nose to nose with her, and gives her a somber, bemused look. "Can you smell that?"

She studies his face, her expression a mix of surprise and something else. Pity? Fear?

"I'm sorry, Doctor. What kind of smell?"

"Forget it. Just...forget it." He pushes off the wall, nearly colliding with Nurse Whose Name He Has Forgotten, weaves an uneven pattern through the tumult and heads toward the elevators.

--

"Nice of you to grace us with your presence." Cuddy stands behind her desk, those dark eyes searing through him. House has long surmised that with the right leather teddy and whip she'd make a perfect dominatrix. Now is not the time to tell her so.

"Got caught up in a little traffic jam."

Each member of his team has found a place to idle. Foreman leans against the bookshelf, Chase rocks on his heels over by the ficus tree, Cameron has settled by the wood paneled wall, which is boasts a collection of photos, diplomas and citations.

"Where?"

"Second floor. Lots of hustle bustle up there."

"I thought you were in your office," Foreman said.

"I was."

"Then what were you doing on the second floor?"

_Hmmm, diagnostics is on the-sixth floor. All that crazy, kooky death stuff is on floor number two...two...two. How'd you get there? Elevator? Stairwell? Don't remember? Woah, you're losing it, kiddo..._

He considers allowing that low moan lounging at the back of his throat to escape, to clue them all in to how debilitating this fright is. But he doesn't need their questions or an overload of Cameron's compassion. Instead he presses his lips into a thin line, tightens his grip around the head of his cane and seats himself in front of Cuddy's desk. "Got a nose for trouble. Figured maybe I could help," he lies, making his tone as light as he is able. "Speaking of noses-" His gaze soars to Cuddy, then the trio, before landing on Cuddy again. "You smell that?"

"What?" Cuddy sighs, shifting on her heels.

"Bad smell." House shakes his head. "Very ba-aad."

"I don't know _what_ you're talking about, House." She rolls her eyes. "There's no bad smell."

"Good." House smacks his hands together, leans back, gracing them all with a wide grin. "That ends that. So what's up?"

Foreman edges closer, leans in slightly to give House a ten second once over. "What's it smell like?"

_A shot rings out, then another. "Come on." You try to keep up with your father as he races ahead in search of the buck he has just killed. The heels of your hiking boots crunch against dried twigs and dead leaves as you run, run, run. You're almost out of breath but you can't slow down. It's important, no...imperative, to keep up the pace as your dad barrels along. Your eyes are set firmly on the old man's orange hunting jacket as he deftly navigates around tree trunks, disappearing into the thicket before reappearing in the brush. You don't want to lose him. The thought of being lost in the woods terrifies you. But you're slipping behind. Don't fall behind. Don't fall-_

_But you do fall...sliding into the rotting carcass of a deer. Some animal got to it before you but never finished the job. The remains smell impossibly putrid, unbelievably foul almost like..._

"...a body that's been left out in the desert heat for about a week, then sprayed with some unbelievably potent cologne," House tells Foreman.

"Phantom smells? Foreman hitches a brow. "How long have you had them?"

"They started today." He waggles a finger in Foreman's face. "Ah, Herr doctor, you're thinking brain tumor."

"You could have one." Foreman shrugs, fingers dancing over the penlight in his lab coat pocket. He pulls it out, clicks it on. "Let me do an MRI, check you for a Parosmia. If a tumor is pressing on part of your olfactory-"

"Shut up and put that damn light away," House grumbles. "We're not here for me."

House knows his staff, and the neurologist is not interrogating him out of the goodness of his heart or because he truly cares about big bad Greg's well being. Foreman smells a case. And treating his boss...well, that would be one hell of a coup.

"Besides," House continues, "It doesn't matter."

"Sure it does."

"House, you will let Foreman schedule the test." Cuddy folds her arms across her chest. "Stop being such an ass."

"It's a waste of time." Of this he is suddenly certain. "But bless you, Mistress," he coos. "It's good to know your love is true."

Cuddy snorts, looks at each of them in turn. "We have something of a dilemma on our hands."

_No kidding. _House bumps the nub of his cane against his sneaker.

We've had three patients die over the past couple of hours." The administrator rubs her brow before continuing. "Not one of them was critical when admitted. But all of them ...went in the exact same way, within minutes of each other."

"How?" House asks. The tremor in his voice is slight, almost indiscernible.

"Respiratory failure, heart failure, kidney failure. Everything shut down at once." She pauses, straightens some papers, which were already in a neat and nice stack on her desk. "It's like they were clicked off, like someone decided to...flick a switch."

That grating laughter plays in his head again. Like fingernails down a greenboard, the whispery hiss sends chills joyriding up and down his arms.

"There will be autopsies, of course. But I'd like you and your team to go over the patients' files." She lifts a stack of folders from her desk and walks them over to Cameron. "See if you can find some kind of common denominator."

House shifts in his seat, raising his eyes, not wanting an answer but asking the question anyway. "What happened on the second floor?"

Cuddy shakes her head. "There were five close calls. No one died. Mr. McMurphy in Room 27 flatlined for a little over a minute. They got him back."

House grips the edge of Cuddy's desk, pushes against his cane to bring himself to his feet. "Start going over those files," he tell his team on his way out. "I'll meet you upstairs later."

"Where are you going?" Foreman asks.

He stops at the door. "Thought I'd check in on the flatliner. Maybe he can clue me in to what they're wearing in the afterlife." He adds, "There's something to be said for being prepared. Having style is oh, so important." He winks. "Anywhere."

No one even chuckles as he walks out.

--

The janitor with the gauze wrapped hand pushes the cart past the reception desk. Secured to the cart is an aluminum pail; ammonia scented water sloshes up and back against its edge. A mop sits in the water, its handle slanted eastward. The man sighs and slows to a stop in front of the expansive picture window, causing the mop handle to _pong _once against the inside of the pail. He rubs two calloused fingers of his good hand on the base of the crucifix around his neck. Occasionally his lips move in what is perhaps a silent prayer. From the look of it, today hasn't been one of the guy's better days. He has been hurt, burned. Sterile pads dot his neck, the bony area just beneath his ear, on his cheek, just above his brow.

House takes it all in as he ambles toward him. The plan is to pass him, head to the elevator that will bring to the second floor. But as he moves along, he can't help catch the man's entreaty to a god that, if He exists, probably has better things to do than listen to such nonsensical babble. Murmuring his prayer in an anguished mix of Spanish, English and Portuguese, the man might have spent the rest of the day in reflection if House hadn't _whapped_ his cane against the side of the cart.

"Where the hell is my WD40?"

"Madre del Dios," the man exclaims. He fixes House with a despairing look, then bursts into tears.

"Oh, stop it" House takes a quick step back, flustered. More tears. _Damn. _Why do they have to cry? What good does it do? "My chair squeaks. I need the damn thing-"

"El olor," the janitor whispers.

House's heartbeat accelerates. His temples pound in time. He would like to leave, just get on his Honda, gun it and roar off down the road.

"El _olor." _This time the words are an entreaty of a different kind.

_The smell._

"What's your name?"

"Manuel."

"Manuel." House moves closer. "What do you smell?"

The janitor gives him a blank look.

"House tries again. "Qué huele usted?"

"Putrefaccion," Manuel's voice cracks, his gaze moving past House, toward the entranceway.

_Rot._

"Hedor putrido."

_Putrid stink._

"Muerte."

_Death._

"Y perfume enfermizamente dulce."

_And sickly sweet perfume._

"Where?"

"Por todas partes!" Manuel lifts his hands then drops them to his sides.

_Everywhere._

Manuel sobs again, his gaze accusatory, livid. Scared.

House's right hand trembles as he puts a bit more pressure the cane. Forcing himself to maintain an air of calm, he keeps his gaze steady on the janitor. "Tell me what happened to you."

Manuel rambles, waving his arms, his words spilling and tumbling out in a Spanish/English/Portuguese mess. From what House can piece together, Manuel had been in the supply closet with two other maintenance workers, gathering his buckets, disinfectants, brooms and mops for the day's work. Suddenly a terrific stench filled the room, which neither of the other workers smelled. How could such a strong, terrible odor go unnoticed in a room so small? This frightened him. He wanted to leave but the door was stuck. It was stuck! And the smell was so bad. The others just kept working, talking about their wives, their _ninos_, not listening when Manuel cried that they were trapped in the supply closet with the very bad smell.

That was when one of the jugs of lye soap, way on the top shelf, started to jiggle. The jug jiggled harder and faster, dancing a happy little dance. Oh, but _Madre del Dios_, Manuel knew there was danger in this. _Muy peligroso_. Maybe the jug next to it caught the madness, _la locura,_ since it started dancing too. Manuel didn't know what to do except hide in a little corner and hope the jugs didn't fall. But they did fall; their bottoms cracked and lye splashed all over the floor, splattering skin, trouser legs, darkening the light gray cotton of his uniform. There were screams and terrible, terrible cries. His friend Joaquin got the worst of it, burns all over his arms and face. His lungs were hurt bad too and he is in the hospital now. Dominick had to have all his hair cut off because of the burns. Some of the lye got into his eyes. He can't see out of one of them.

"I am lucky, Dr. House," Manuel says in passable English. "I can work. The others?" He shrugs. "Quien sabe?"

_Who knows?_

House responds with a small grunt, watching two twentysomething women and a seventysomething man stroll into the reception area. They smile at each other, chat about the lovely weather, complain goodnaturedly about the traffic they were forced to endure to get here. The old guy makes a joke and the women titter like birds. They are having a good day.

"Dr. House." Manuel hands him a small yellow can. "I am sorry."

House studies the WD40 Manuel has given him, turning it this way and that like it is some alien artifact. "Come to my office." He holds the can in the flat of his palm, foisting it at the janitor. "Fix the chair."

Manuel shakes his head and sobs again. "I am sorry," he breathes, moving on, rolling the cart, bucket and mop down the hallway. "I am sorry."

--

The stench is so awful, House must steady himself against the wall outside of Room 27 and wait for the churning in his gut to abate before he can consider venturing inside the room. He swallows hard, presses the can of WD40 to his chest like a talisman. He thinks, he puzzles, wracks his brain over the smell. Bad, horrible, abysmal, each of the adjectives apply. But not knowing _why_ the smell exists is even worse than the odor itself.

The head nurse passes him, three LPN's tagging along behind her. They go about their business as if it's just another day in paradise and that,_ la-de-da,_ nothing is wrong. Their attitude is infuriating but, more than that, it scares the crap out of him. The urge to smack each of them upside the head with his cane is nearly irresistible. As they saunter past, they grace him with their curious, somewhat acid tinged glares but nothing more. No compassion, no "How can I help you, Dr. House?" Nothing. Years of intimidating and alienating almost the entire nursing staff (except Pudgy No Name Gal and Night Nurse Myrna) has given them every right to treat him with disdain. But he wishes they could make one small exception-just for today.

He is surprised by his internal sniveling, but rationalizes it by telling himself that fear really _has_ done a job on his head.

_Getting your own back is no fun, is it? And did you really think this would be easy?_

The underlying sweetness, that flowery (funereal) scent makes the putrescence that much worse. But at least now he knew he wasn't the only one imagining things. Manuel confirmed that for him.

"Es tiempo, Dr. House." Manuel's voice plays in his head.

_It's time._

House swallows thickly, his heart beating a mean series of paradiddles against his ribs. A thousand unlikely scenarios of what he'll find when he enters the room take residence in his head. He ambles one step closer then stops to stare at the group of nurses disappearing down the corridor, Slowly, he reaches into his shirt pocket, his fingers brushing the empty Vicodin vial. _Shit_. He forgot to renew the scrip. He considers making a quick trip to the pharmacy, but something _tugs _at him,

(_seductive, irresistible)_

moving him closer, closer, until he is a breath away from Room 27. Softly he counts to ten, allows himself a tiny, tremulous groan...and pushes open the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thanks for reading, everyone.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-3-**

Yes, he pushes the door open...but just a crack, giving himself one last chance to back out and call it a day.

_Naw, silly, you've come this far...besides, for your olfactory pleasure, there's a new aroma available. Curiouser and curiouser..._

He pokes his nose in, takes a whiff. The room reeks of orchids, dust and decay, which, from House's experience, is not the way a hospital room should smell. He thinks of funerals, Aunt Barb's head propped up in her casket, her mouth too red, her steel colored hair pulled back too tight, eyes open just a slit. _I am watching you-ooo--ooo._ He could clearly see the whites; the irises had rolled way far back into her head. The mortician did a shoddy job; even at twelve years old he knew things like that.

Ahh, but now there is another more familiar smell. This time it's a double dose of that cloying dime store cologne stink.

After two false starts, he steps inside, his anxiety merging with cautiousness as he pulls the door shut behind him. The culprit (or victim of a terribly misguided aromatic gift) is most likely the tall blond dude drifting from one side of the bed to the other. House can sense a cock-suredness about him; maybe it's the way his shoulders shift catlike as he moves, so cool, easy and assured. In his black blazer, silver gray shirt, skin tight black jeans and snakeskin boots, he could be a professional poker player or manager of a band the stature of say...U2 or the Rolling Stones.

The dude's attention is on the IV tube inserted in flatliner's thin arm and the wires flowing from the man's chest to the machine monitoring his vital signs. With great care, Dude's fingers light on each tube, each wire. He is gentle but there is something unsettling about his attentions. Beneath the calm House senses a skein of impatience, an edginess, as if the guy is waiting for something momentous to happen.

_Very soon._

It almost seems that Dude is floating. But no, how ridiculous is that? It's obvious he's a graceful guy, but he does still have both feet on the ground. House is truly fascinated. There is a certain elegance to Dude's movements as he flows along, tilting his head this way and that. Brushing a proprietary finger from the flatliner's nasal canula down to the limp hand on the blanket, Dude's lips curl in contentment; he hums-Gershwin's _Someone To Watch Over Me. _ But now, _oh, wow, _now, see? _Now_ those boot heels have wings. Dude _is really_ floating. He glides up and back, then hovers in low over the man

_like an angel_

and breathes something in his ear. And though flatliner is well out of it, he grins, babbles and moans his ecstatic response.

The part of House that lords over the tiny sane district of Gregland is urging him to get the hell out of this room. Yet...he really wants to stay. This is interesting, a lot more intriguing than some of the snore inducing cases he's had to plow through recently. He shuffles back a step, situating himself that much closer to the door. _Just in case._ Besides, scooting off would be like giving in, saying okay, you win. I'm nuts. Bring on the plastic cuffs, the ol' straitjacket. Take me away.

Dude drifts _over_ the bed now, putting words to the Gershwin tune in a voice like Lennon meets Sinatra meets Elvis meets every damn pop singer who ever died and went to-

_You know, this dude looks awfully familiar._

_Sometimes the mind plays tricks._

House pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a breath, figuring if he doesn't pay too much attention to the strangeness, it might just kind of blend into the background. Besides, his thigh is in the process of gathering its arsenal of pain, preparing to protest this longer than usual wait for its Vicodin. He should go renew his scrip. But before he does it would be nice to get to the bottom of what is going on in here and perhaps gain some info on the flatliner at the same time.

_And why are you so damn calm? The guy is floating. FLOATING!_

He looks up, scowls at Dude, who is hovering close to the ceiling.

"Hey." House calls. "Dude."

"Won't you tell her please to put on some speed..." Dude croons.

"Yo, David Copperfield."

Dude's head whips round. His lips part, his brows shoot up . His surprised, delighted laughter is so infectious, House finds himself joining in. _Well, hells bells, looks like you done good_.

Those gold green eyes flash their pleasure. With a flick of his tail, Dude spins a one eighty and bows deeply to his guest.

_Tail? Dude's got a tail? Oh, you are so done for._

"Ah, Dr. House, please forgive me for being so preoccupied." He eases himself to a soft landing, runs his hands through his hair, over the front of his blazer. "I'm sure you know what it's like to get so involved in your work you block everything else out."

_Work?_

Despite a sudden nagging sense of unease, House tries to think of a cracking response, something to really set the guy on his ear. But then something occurs to him, something that makes a hell of a lot of sense and puts everything right. With a great sense of relief, he sighs, shakes his head and chuckles. "Damn. You really had me going."

"Mmm?"

"I should have known. This is some kind of psych experiment. Cuddy probably needed a guinea pig and I volunteered." He places a finger against his chin. Thinks. "I would do something like that."

Dude cocks his head. "Oh, I believe you would." Those eyes sparkle with amusement.

"Yeah, she probably didn't want me to do it. But I'm a persistent bastard. I'm sure I insisted. And she caves for me all the time. Plus," He smiles a genuine smile, the scenario making a whole helluva lotta sense. "it's a brilliant way of getting out of clinic duty" House pauses, letting his revelation sink in. "I'm lying in a dimly lit room, wires attached to my temples, my chest, imagining I'm talking to you."

"I see." The tail flicks.

"The horrible smells, those are all part of it too."

"Yes?"

"You stink, by the way." Surprised to find himself out of breath, House shuts his eyes, waits for his composure to return. "You're stinking up the whole floor, the entire hospital..."

"Oh, well, if you don't like it, you can change it." Those green eyes darken to a muddy hazel. "If...it's a dream."

"It is...a dream."

Dude drifts closer. "If you say so."

House shivers, considers the distance to the door. All he needs to do is spin around, pull the handle and he's out. But...this is still so interesting.

_If you say so. _Dude's eyes appraise him, little gold flecks dancing, dancing.

"It's been happening all day. First the smell, then somehow I found myself on this floor when I meant to go...somewhere else."

"Oooh, cue the nightmare music."

House's eyes widen, his gaze holding steady. "Your lips don't move when you talk."

"Neither do yours." Dude throws House a quick salute and winks.

A nurse enters the room, moves between House and the dude. She checks flatliner's chart, the IV, the monitor, writes some stats on her clipboard, then leaves.

"She didn't see me...or you."

Dude shrugs. "No, she wouldn't see me, not today anyway. She will in about twenty seven years. But you? Maybe she was ignoring you. You're not exactly the nurses' favorite blue eyed boy."

House leans forward, putting pressure on his right leg, which, for some reason, hardly aches at all. "No. I know the difference between being ignored and not being seen. What I don't know is the why and how of what's going on."

"Sometimes," the dude replies slowly and with great care, "the mind plays tricks."

They stare at each other. Certain that at any moment he will awaken, wired up in that dimly lit room, House decides he might as well go for anything he can get.

"You do this to him?" He tilts his chin at flatliner. "And the three who died?"

"What do you think?"

"In this odd place I'm in, I'd say yes."

"Then you'd be right." Dude throws him a proud smile. But the pride is directed at House, not himself. "You're a very resourceful thinker."

"It's what I do."

"You're going to be a great help to me." Dude bites his lip, presses his palms together. "I am looking forward to it."

"I never said I'd help you with anything." Scratching his stubble, he winces. "Did I?"

"Of course not." Shaking his head, Dude waves his hands in a 'no, no, no' gesture. "I am sorry. I am getting way ahead of myself."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Oh, you know me." Dude gave him a shy little _pshaw_ grin. "We've met before."

_Familiar..._

"I wouldn't expect you to remember off the bat. But we'll get to the 'why and how', as you say, in good time."

This doesn't seem unreasonable. Oddly, nothing does. "So we have a history," House is pacing now, his right hand languidly twirling his cane.

"Indeed." Dude crosses his arms.

The attempt to remember pushes him up against a virtual brick wall. It also makes his head ache. House ceases his cane twirling, leans against the door and massages his temple. "You don't want me to know."

"To everything there is a season, so I've heard." Dude quirks a brow and smiles. We'll have lots of time to chat."

"And what am I supposed to call you?"

"Hey, you're an imaginative fellow. Why don't you pick a name? It couldn't be any worse than some of the colorful monikers I've been given."

"Gotta call you something." Narrowing his eyes, he tapped one finger against his lower lip, thinking, thinking.

"Dude's no good?"

House cocked his head.

"Hmm, picky, I see." Dude sighed. You might as well call me Mortimer. It's what you used last time."

"That name sucks," House told him. "I would never choose a name like that."

"You called me Mort."

_Mort, Morte, Muerte._

_Death. _

_Aaah, the light goes on._

Mort extends his hand. House stares at the pale fingers, the manicured nails, the slim gold chain that glimmers off the wrist. Despite another shiver, House clasps those fingers and is immediately filled with warmth and a powerful sense of well being.

"Woah." He sways and stumbles back from the intensity...from the _beauty _of the feeling. But Mort's grip is strong enough to steady him.

"How's your leg?"

House rubs his right thigh, waiting for the return of the twinge, the searing ache that would signal it was time for the Downing Of The Vicodin. But it doesn't come. Slowly, very slowly, he raises his head, his eyes wide, mouth agape. "What did you do?"

Mort throws him a wry grin. "I killed the pain. For a little while anyway. Gotta have some leverage to get what I want."

"What do you want?"

With a beatific grin, he releases House's hand, floats back toward the bed. "Go to your office, fix that squeaky chair, have a chat with Wilson-he's such a worrier. Tell him to calm down."

The warmth of Mort's grip burns into House's right palm like a brand. He holds the hand out in front of him, flexing the fingers, yearning to re-experience that extraordinary feeling-that nothing will ever be wrong or bad or painful again.

_Now you really got trouble._

"You like that, huh?" Mort's voice is like deep blue velvet in his head. "That's just one of the perks. There are many more."

They stare at each other again but this time there is no challenge, only a thousand unanswered questions.

"Go. Do what you have to do. Then meet me back here. We'll talk some more."

House realizes he is gaping again. He closes his mouth, turns toward the door.

"Oh, don't forget."

House pauses in mid stride to look over his shoulder. His gaze lights on the WD40, which sits atop a table next to a water pitcher and cups. The yellow can seems somehow brighter than before. Glowing.

"Go fix that squeaky chair, Dr. House."

His heart pounding, House grabs the can and hurries out the door without looking back.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Exiting Room 27 is a shocker-like being plunged deep into a tub of ice after spending an hour in a sauna. That eerie calm has abandoned him. Now he trembles, shakes as if in the throes of a fever dream. His left hand clutches his chest as he hitches his cane under his arm, his right hand is wrapped tightly around the yellow can. He careens down the corridor, mulling over the fact that is leg is just a leg now, not a burden to be hauled around, to be cursed at and fretted over.

But he soon slows his pace, realizing that eyes are on him, curious, probing eyes of his fellow health professionals. The place is teeming with the curious buggers. They know all about him and are well aware that he can't possibly be making this speedy trek down the hallway. Not with that mangled thigh. Pretty soon someone's going to start getting nosy...asking stuff. And there is no way in hell he's going to admit to what he saw or what he _thought_ he saw.

He knows how to play the game. With some reluctance, he bows his head, switches the can to his left hand. He puts his weight on the cane, stands off to one side of the corridor, letting them all see that, yes, he is still the gimp they all know and dislike. No miraculous recovery here. No, sorry, there will be no articles published in the Journal of the American Medical Association about the Miraculous Healing at Plainsboro.

What he needs is a moment-to sort, to speculate, to stew before he has to do the difficult stuff , like face his team...and Wilson.

He pushes through the door to the stairwell; his even footfalls echo in the emptiness as he makes a beeline to the top step. After surveying his surroundings and listening hard to confirm he is alone, he settles himself on the first stair, placing his cane and the can of lubricant by his side. It is only then he allows himself to fall apart-a little bit. Clenching his fists against his eyes, he shudders, sobs.

_Shut up! You're too loud. They're gonna hear you out there..._

After one more torso shaking cry, he swallows, wipes his tears on his sleeves and stares at his sneakers.

_What are you going to do, kiddo?_

He needs a plan, a course of action. His palms press against his knees, fingers traveling up, lighting on his thigh that is still very much ruined but no longer, for some reason, a source of pain. He wishes he had his ball, his yoyo or hell, even his slinky to keep his hands busy, his thoughts rolling. Taking a look around, he finds nothing but the WD40 can and decides this will have to do. Passing it from one palm to the other, his mind eases into what it does best, turning unusual events over and over, allowing him to 'see' them, put them in some sort of warped perspective.

_What to do? What to do?_

First he will agree to let Foreman schedule an MRI, since there is undoubtedly some organic problem in his noggin causing those looney thoughts of Death ala Mort. He discards the psychological testing notion he had come up with earlier. Cuddy would never let a test like that go on for this long.

_Maybe..._

House presses the cool metal can against his forehead and closes his eyes. It's obvious that the same kind of black, foreign thing that ruined his leg has now taken residence in his brain, causing the visions and the phantom smells. The evil thingy could go by any number of names...

_...Brain Stem Glioma...Pineal Astrocytic Tumor..._

The thought of a brain tumor frightens him, sure, but not as much as it makes his stomach clench with anger. He just can't seem to get a break.

_...Diffuse Astrocytoma...Anaplastic Astrocytoma...Glioblastoma..._

He will then head to his office, pump the joints of his chair full of WD40. Later, for his own peace of mind, he will return to Room 27 just to prove to himself that there is no Death guy there waiting to gab with him and offer him 'perks'. He will then fill his scrip. And then he will go home.

_Easy._

There is one more thing he is inclined to do before he sets off on his tasks. One very simple thing. He sets the WD40 next to his cane, reaches up for the handrail. Standing now, he gives a furtive glance over one shoulder, then the other.

_No one's around. Go for it._

With a whoop, he bounds down the stairs to the first floor landing, then races back up again. Breathless from the effort and the undeniable pleasure of it, he does it again.

_You're not supposed to be enjoying this._

His heart races, the blood thrums against his temples as he bends to squeeze his thigh. Nothing-no twinge, no shadow of pain, nothing to indicate that any sort of torment is on its way.

Somewhere, someone laughs. _It's all in your mind, son._

And sometimes the mind plays tricks.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **First-thanks to everyone who has taken the time to check out this story. I appreciate your readership. Next-thanks to my beta NaiveEve (go read "Unfair"-it's great) for her remarkable attention to detail and her excellent suggestions.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-4-**

"Sooo, what's up?"

House saunters into the conference room, taking care to maintain his limp and (outwardly at least) sustain a mid-range level of his usual arrogance. Keeping things as normal as possible under these extremely abnormal conditions was the key to making it through this day, sanity intact.

"We'd just about given up on you," Foreman tells him, already clad in his windbreaker, car keys jangling in one hand. "It's almost five, we thought maybe you'd gone home."

"You thought wrong." House glares at him then indicates Chase and Cameron with a sweep of his hand. "I don't see these guys waiting for the little hand to tickle the five and the big hand to hit the twelve." The pair in question sit side by side at the conference table, file folders open before them. Empty coffee cups and crumpled sheets of legal paper litter the perimeter of their work area.

House strolls past them, rounds the corner of the table to stand next to Foreman. He smirks as he bellows, "Why, Foreman, you must have a date."

Foreman scowls and raps his knuckles against the back of his seat.

"Aha! Must be a good one. Who is it? That hungry looking mama from the E.R.?

"House..." Cameron leans back, folds her arms across her chest. "This is one of those rare times we can all have the evening off once we finish up here."

"Right, then." He sits at the head of the table, tossing a wink at Foreman who suddenly becomes very interested in his fingernails. "Tell me what you've found."

"You're not going to like it."

House shoots her a scowl, making an impatient rolling motion with his hand.

"We found nothing," Cameron says. "The ailments of the three 'sudden death' victims were not even close to being similar. We had a sixty year old woman in for pneumonia, fifty two year old guy here for the removal of a benign tumor under his arm, and a nineteen year old boy with a throat infection. There is absolutely nothing to tie them together." She sighs, slapping closed the folder in front of her. "We tried, House. Look at the white board."

On the board, scribbled in black dry-mark, is a massive list of symptoms and diagnostic speculations.

"Maybe _you_ should have a look at the files."

He shakes his head. "I don't need to have a look."

"You're satisfied with what we...didn't find?" Chase asks.

"Yep."

"House," Foreman shoves his keys into his pocket and takes a seat. "you should at least go over the files. Lots of times you pick up on things we don't."

He bows his head, shivers and slowly rubs his palms together.

"House?" Cameron says softly. "You okay?" Her overblown concern is as contagious as a head cold. _Aw hell_. He raises his eyes and glances at each of them in turn. _They've all caught it now._

"Leave the files. I'll go over them...later." _Tomorrow. Next week. Never. _He rises from his seat then turns to Foreman. "Did you schedule the MRI?"

"Tomorrow. Eleven A.M."

"Good." He strides toward the door with the ease of a man who's leg is ...just a leg and not some bothersome, defective appendage.

_Uh oh. Freeze, physician scum!_

"Forget something?" Cameron is standing now, eyes narrowing in a mix of disbelief and worry as she holds his cane out to him.

He says nothing as he takes it from her.

Hell, there is nothing to say.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hurries to the pharmacy, renews his scrip, rides the elevator to the sixth floor then heads for his office. The WD40 can in his jacket pocket bumps against his thigh, keeping time with each step he takes. His strides are too even, too easy, which unnerves him so he keeps the limp going, even though the corridor is empty. Right about now he could go for one of those thigh twisting twinges as assurance that this respite from pain is a mere detour from Reality Row. Tomorrow the MRI will tell the tale. After which he'll get fixed up good as new and everything will mosey on back to where it ought to be.

_You don't really believe that hogwash, do you?_

No. Not for one hot second.

_Didn't think so._

The smell, ah, the smell. It's not so much all around him now as _inside_ him. It's part of him. Mort's sachet. The mix of cloying sweetness and putrescence is the dude's way of telling him yeah, I'm still here in Room 27, hangin' out, waiting just for you.

"Maybe," House thinks, "just maybe I won't go back."

_You have to go back._

"I don't _have_ to goddamn do anything."

Suddenly the stench is on him, like a hand clamped over his face, a fist digging into his throat. He stumbles back into the door to his office, then lurches forward, coughing, sputtering, eyes tearing from the force of the 'attack'.

"Alright." His breath rasps and tears inside his chest. "You _fucking_ win."

There is movement in his office. A shadow shifts beyond the vertical blinds. House hangs back, his hand drifting over the doorknob. His fingers tremble as they grasp it and...twist. The door swings open. It shouldn't. He's pretty sure he locked it earlier. But here he is, already in the room.

Over in the corner something or _someone_ moves toward him with quick, assured strides. He cringes, grasping his cane firmly with both hands, holding it across his chest like a shield.

"House...?"

His grip tightens around the wood, as if he can't believe this is really and truly Wilson emerging from the half light.

"House."

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

His shoulders sag as he lets out a long, relieved breath. "For your information, the electric bill's paid up until the end of June." He jabs a thumb at the switch on the wall. "Cuddy gave us the go ahead to turn on the lights."

"Sorry." Wilson flicks the switch and the overhead fluorescents flicker on. "Just got here myself."

House rubs his brow, removes the WD40 from his pocket and pulls off the cap. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you here?" House kneels, twisting his body so his right elbow leans hard against his right thigh, his left hand stretching into the chair innards. He inclines his head, offering himself a better look underneath, and begins to apply the lubricant to the chair's springs and joints.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're oiling your chair." Wilson moves next to House then hunkers down to observe his handiwork. "I can do that for you."

"Why? I'm doing a terrific job."

"Your leg must hurt."

"It doesn't." His right arm presses harder on his thigh as he works, the discomfort factor nearly zip. A corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly as he savors this respite from pain.

_Perks._

"How can it not? Just look at you."

The rich distinctive scents of the WD40 and Wilson's _Obsession_ cologne are comforting but they still can't mask _eau de Mort._

After one final application of the lubricant, House emerges from under the chair, drops the half full can on his desk and slaps his hands together. "Done."

"Your leg doesn't hurt after all that?"

"No." House seats himself in his chair, rocks experimentally and smiles at the squeak free experience. "Did you come here to bug me?"

"No, I came here first to apologize for this afternoon."

"What happened this afternoon?"

"We spoke," Wilson says. "on the balcony. Remember? I kind of blew you off."

"Ah, yes." House pouts. "You hurt me to the quick. I want compensation. Fifty dollars a month for the next five years..."

Wilson paces the length of the desk. Stops. Paces some more. "The woman's husband just died. She was distraught. The son was just...overwrought."

House arches a brow. "Just do what I do. Open the Yellow Pages to 'Funeral Directors'. Help the Distraughts choose one in the most ghetto part of town. They're cheaper there. Plus they send you off with some bitchin' tunes. None of that weepy dirge crap." He smirks. "Those Distraughts'll be out of your office before you can say 'grits and barbecue'.

Wilson shakes his head, lifts his hands. "I don't know why I bother." But there is that hint of a smile he tries vainly to quell.

"Oh, laugh," House rocks up and back. "Enjoy life."

Wilson does, a little, before setting his hands on his hips again. "I'm worried about you."

"Why?"

"Because...you've been acting...stranger than usual-babbling to yourself in corridors, sobbing in stairwells...smelling phantom smells, plus...your thigh should be killing you about now."

Annoyance flicks its little fingers. "Who made you hall monitor this week? Or are you hosting that new hip reality show, "How Low Can Greg Go?"

Wilson seats himself on the corner of the desk. "Despite what you may think, House, people do care about you. They're just too intimidated to tell you, so they come to me."

"Great. You know about my misadventures. And now I know you know about them." He checks his watch. "Isn't it time you went home?"

Wilson leans forward. "Why are you in such a rush to get rid of me?"

"I'm not in a rush." House raises one arm to indicate the room. "Set up shop here. I'll wear a wire. You bring in the surveillance stuff. Then you can keep track of my every move without your cronies reporting in every hour."

Wilson sighs. "Tell me what's going on with you."

House closes his eyes, savoring the silence. "I wish the hell I knew."

"Foreman schedule the MRI?"

"Tomorrow morning." House nods, eyes still closed.

"I heard...you were crying on the stairs."

He opens his eyes and surveys his bookshelves, his journals, his PC, his stack of video games. "I was afraid."

"Of-?"

House shoots him a look. "It's pretty obvious..."

"Look, if it's a tumor, the chances are good it's operable..."

"You don't know that. You _can't_ know that. Stop placating me. I'm not one of your patients or a daddy to some cancer kid." He drums his fingers on the desk. "Your comment is a perfect example of why people hate doctors."

"Thanks."

"I'm going to see flatliner, then I'm going home."

"You want company?"

"No." House shakes his head slowly. "No." He stands, this time remembering his cane as he heads for the door.

"I'll call you later," Wilson yells after him, which causes House to stop in his tracks and turn around. For a moment the men stare at one another.

_What would he think if you told him? Time was you could tell Wilson anything._

House looks away first, hunching his shoulders as he continues his trip down the corridor.

_But not this._

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He probably wouldn't have noticed the flier had it been posted anywhere else in the building. But taped to the wall by the elevators it seems out of place, like it's been displayed there purposely for him to see. He presses the 'down' button and reads the notice, studies the photo below the print, reads the notice again. The elevator arrives. He doesn't move to board it. The passengers shift and murmur, waiting. Still, he doesn't move. His gaze is intent on the flier. The doors slide closed. The car bumps and heads down.

**PLEASE HELP**

He has no idea how long he's been standing, staring at the notice on the wall. Two minutes? Two hours? The smell of ammonia is starting to get to him. It started out on the _faint_ end of the Smell-O-Gauge but is gradually teetering toward _overwhelming_. His nostrils flare. He sways a bit. Now there are sounds emanating from...somewhere: squeaky wheels rolling, rolling along, the rattle of a bucket handle, the metallic _thunk _of wood against metal, then the_ thwap_ of a wet mop against linoleum.

**_Manuel Jueveres, a maintenance worker here at Princeton-Plainsboro for the past two years..._**

The elevator door opens. Someone gets off, someone gets on. House is transfixed, reading the words over and over and over...

_**...succumbed to injuries he suffered when two containers of lye accidentally spilled on him and two of his co-workers. Dominick Rodrigo and Javier Santiago are in serious condition in the burn ward. Manuel passed away on May 5th**. _

_Let's see, May 5th was yesterday, that makes today May 6th. Okay, according my calculations, this means that little "Madre del Dios" chat you had with Manuel Jueveres this afternoon occurred after the guy was dead. Oh...really..._

_**Donations to help defray the costs of Manuel's funeral expenses are being accepted at the first floor reception desk.**_

_...sometimes the mind..._

At the bottom is a picture of a smiling Manuel standing next to a pretty dark eyed woman and three little boys. Around Manuel's neck is a wooden cross.

_Slosh...slosh...squee...squee. _The sounds are louder now; that cart is drawing nearer, the ammonia smell wraps itself around him like a living breathing thing. House swallows hard, slamming his hand once, twice, three times against the elevator's 'down' button.

..._plays...tricks._

Around the corner. That's where the sound is. That's where _he_ is. House doesn't think he's up to seeing Manuel again. One heartfelt chat with the dead was enough for one day. Besides, he is off to meet with the guy responsible for Manuel's untimely demise.

_The worst part is you don't believe in any of this shit and yet..._

He draws his fingers into a tight fist and grunts as he bangs the elevator button. Hard.

..._here it is._

The elevator arrives just as the front of Manuel's cart turns the corner.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House stands outside Room 27, sensing that tug, the pull.

_So strong here._

The half full can of WD40 has somehow made it back into his jacket pocket. He doesn't recall putting it there before leaving his office. But he likes the feel of it-its heft, its weight. His fingers wrap themselves around the warm metal. He draws one step, two steps closer to the room, wondering at the calm stealing over him again.

Beyond the door are voices. The chatter is hushed, reverential and he knows it will stop when he enters. If the family and friends of flatliner are in the room, House figures he will have to go through the bother of identifying himself as a physician, fielding questions, whipping out the stethoscope, checking charts and vitals.

For an instant he is struck with the idea that perhaps Mort won't even be in there. Maybe (hopefully) he has disappeared, gone back to the great beyond or wherever the fuck he resides. But the pressure against the back of his neck, the _pull_ on his vitals tells House this is not the case. He suddenly senses an impatience and a disturbing, _dangerous_ anger he doesn't think he wants to mess with.

House pushes open the door and sees a well dressed woman in her fifties, a guy who has to be pushing eighty and a gorgeous woman of twenty five, thirty (who cares?) seated around flatliner's bed. Involved in conversation, they either don't notice him or he has once again been rendered invisible. Despite his trepidation, he can't help but let his eyes drift over the younger woman's perfect form, her dress hitched up just right to show off her shapely thighs, the curve of her calves. She has wonderful breasts...

"There are better things, you know."

House frowns at the interruption, his attention sailing over to the dude floating just above the bed. At first, Mort scowls at him, those remarkable eyes shooting daggers. The obvious message here is 'don't fuck with me'. Fear tightens House's gut, causing him to grip the can in his pocket tighter and give a small nod of comprehension.

Mort seems pleased with the response and rewards House with a smile. "But you're right. She is lovely. Always knew you had taste. Regardless of what anyone says."

It seems the dude still doesn't need his lips or tongue or a voicebox to get his point across. And House finds that, once again, he has been blessed with this unusual talent as well.

"There may be better things, " House thinks/says, slipping behind the young woman. He stares over her head, down her low cut dress into her cleavage. "But it all comes back to sex. It always comes back to sex. Sex and death. Two constants. Add taxes and you have the unholy trio."

The old man says something witty, causing the young woman to throw her head back and let out a long, hearty laugh. House's lips part slightly as he places his fingers inches above her pretty throat.

"If you touch her she'll see you."

"_That_ would be...interesting," Without making contact, he traces the line of her neck down to where her breastbone meets the tops of her lovely breasts. He stops and throws Mort a mischievous look.

"Perks." With a wink and a wave, Mort transports them both...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

...to the jogging park, a block away from the hospital.

The twilight sky is a rainbow of violet hues, with streaks of deep blues, magenta and pastel pink clouds added to the mix.

"Beautiful sky," Mort says.

"Mmm."

They amble down a nearly deserted path along the lakeshore. A lone cyclist and a corpulent, yet determined jogger pass them on their way, both unaware of the presence of the diagnostician and the dude. Sometimes, House thinks, ignorance is definitely bliss.

"Not your thing." Mort indicates the sky with a tilt of his head.

"No."

"You like the dark. Your idea of a good time? Mort snaps his fingers, stealing a look at his companion. "Playing jazz standards on your piano at midnight and getting quietly blitzed on Jim Beam."

House shrugs. "Something like that."

Mort stops in his tracks. House notices how his tail flicks and waves, as if following the lead of the gentle wind blowing off the lake.

"Give me your cane, Doctor."

House tosses it and Mort raises his arm to make the one handed catch.

"Let's jog, baby," the dude croons.

They start off at an easy pace. The feel of the ground falling away beneath each sturdy footfall makes House somewhat giddy. He takes a chance, speeds it up a bit. It feels good. Too good. The lake and trees rush by in a green and blue blur. He throws his head back, the wind riffles his hair, tickles his cheeks, cools his temples. It's been almost a year since he's had a run. After the Ketamine treatment he was able to do eight miles. But that pain free existence didn't last more than a few weeks. Neither would this.

_Enjoy it while you can._

He should be huffing and puffing, gasping for air by this time. But no, his respiration is as steady as his heartbeat.

_Interesting._

Gradually, he slows to a light jog and heads for the picnic table beneath the shade of an elm tree. When he visits this place, which is a rarity these days, this is where he comes.

"Feel good?" Mort slides in next to House on the bench.

House folds his hands and bumps them against the wood. "Yes, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?"

"I've found that there's always a tradeoff to being pain free," House tells him. "The pills allows me to function but one day my liver's going to cave because of them. Now you're going to make me some kind of offer" He pauses, drums his fingers on the table. "Can't even imagine what it is. But if it's going to rid me of pain and put me under your thumb, I'm not so sure I want to hear it."

"You think too much."

"That's what gets me the big bucks."

Their laughter mingles. It is comfortable, companionable.

Mort leans his chin against his palm. "I guess I've complicated things for you today, haven't I?"

"Oh...just a little."

"Let me preface what I'm going to offer you by saying I don't view you as an adversary."

"Why would you?"

"Well, you save lives, I take them."

"It's the natural order of things." House glances at him. "I can only delay the inevitable. Eventually you'll come out the winner."

"You've been close to dying before."

"Yep."

"Your infarction, the gunshot wounds." Mort's tone softens. "I do look familiar, don't I?"

"Yep."

"We met. Had quite an interesting visit."

"It was so utterly awesome I can't even remember it," House smirks.

"No. I guess you wouldn't." Mort stares at the darkening sky. "But you impressed me."

House shakes his head, shrugs. "That's really too bad."

"Why's that?"

"If I'd bored you, you wouldn't be up my ass now."

Mort chuckles and claps his hands. "If you bored me, you'd be dead, off somewhere with the rest of the rabble. No, I wanted you here so I could watch you, study you. You amuse me. You_ interest _me."

"Wow, I am really flattered. So when did we have this chat?"

"You know." Mort teases.

House bows his head, sighs, suddenly weary. "I already told you-"

"Espresso," says Mort with a knowing grin.

_And suddenly he remembers. Nursing espressos, they sit across from one another at the small round table at a pleasant outdoor bistro. Their chatter is easy, amiable. They speak about life, death and the fleeting nature of time. The table is covered with a checkered tablecloth. House finds that his cup fits perfectly inside a black square..._

"You remember now?" Mort's face is very close to his. Those white teeth gleam, those green eyes are glowing, luminescent.

House winces and rubs at the goosebumps prickling the back of his neck.

"I'd been watching you long before that meeting. You, just...intrigued me. You've got an old soul, you know."

"I could have guessed."

"I was eager to meet with you, just waiting for the right time. When you were put in a chemically induced coma after your infarction, that was when I made my move." The corners of his lips twitch. "I _took_ you for awhile."

"Woah, I'm flattered." Stretching his legs, House waits for the twinge that doesn't come. " And now you've taken time out from your busy schedule to find me again."

"Boredom makes me to do...unusual things," he says. "And I have become infused with ennui."

"Oh, but how can you be bored, Mort?" House's eyes widen, his tone bites. "You have so much to do, fighting off the efforts of great medical minds, causing fatal accidents involving maintenance workers and cleaning solutions."

"I get bored because I rarely do my own legwork, and the day to day drudge work has grown dull." He shrugs. "You know as well as I do there are always minions around to do the menial stuff.""

"So taking lives is grunt work?"

"The actual taking is easy." Mort tells him. "The who, when, where and why is the challenge and requires some imagination. But even that can get tiresome ." He smiles gently as if discussing the warm spring breeze. "Today was just my 'making up for lost time' day, while I was waiting for you."

"So you decided to do away with four people and cause havoc around the hospital to bide your time?"

"'Do away' is such a coarse term." Mort taps his fingers together. "I prefer to say I sent them around the bend."

"Cute."

Mort leans forward, his feet rustling the grass beneath the table. "Now I came up with this idea...which I know will benefit you as much as it will me. For a long time I've tried to reach you, to show you, but your mind is always going, going, going like some infuriating, unstoppable machine. Even when you sleep you manage to shut me out." The green eyes darken to a muddy hazel. "So decided I would have to leave my work in the hands of my minions and make this offer in person."

"Gosh." House gawps. "This is just like Publisher's Clearing House. Are you the guy with the balloons or the big check?"

Mort rocks in place as he softly chuckles. "Oh, you are amusing."

_Maybe...that's not such a good thing._

"Tonight, Doctor..."

_No, definitely not._

"...when you're asleep, you will let me in. You will come with me."

House's stomach clenches. A faint sense of panic pricks the surface of that all encompassing calm.

"You will see what it's like to work alongside me. You'll amuse me. We'll discuss, argue, converse about anything, everything." Resting his warm hand on top of House's, he breathes, "You'll love it."

"I can't."

"You can and you will." Placing his fingers lightly over House's eyes, Mort whispers, "Tonight."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **I know, I _know. _This is a very strange House story so, if you've read this far, thanks for sticking with it. As always, concrits and comments are welcome.

Please note: **This chapter is rated 'M'.**

Extra special thanks to my beta NaiveEve!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-5-**

He rocks. Up and back. Up and back.

Medical books and journals are strewn across his desk, like someone had rushed in, tossed them there, then skedaddled. Post-It Notes poke from between pages like pink, orange and yellow tongues: marked chapters and highlighted quotations concern the topics of the day, kiddies: neurological dysfunctions and brain anomalies.

Currently, House is engrossed in reading a wordy yet informative article in _The Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery and Psychiatry with Practical Neurology _concerning a fifty two year old woman who enjoyed long, complex discussions with elves. The elves visited her home every afternoon at precisely 3:02. She would serve them tea and cookies, then lead them to the piano where they would all sing railroad songs. After a few weeks of this unusual behavior, her husband brought her to a neurologist. An MRI revealed a tumor compressing the pons, the area of the brainstem that manages sensory stimuli. She was diagnosed with Peduncular Hallucinosis and, after removal of the benign tumor, she was just spiffy again. Although she did miss the elves.

_Wow, you just bet you're on the right track now, don't you?_

He hopes so. It is easy to tell himself that Mort's visitations _are _being brought about by a physical anomaly, and that there must be a solid, scientific reason for these symptoms, these hallucinations.

_Ah, yes, of course they are hallucinations. And the moon is made of cheddar cheese. And cats steal the breath of sleeping babies. Shall I go on?_

Up and back, up and back. His chair no longer squeaks, a fact he now finds extremely disconcerting. The squeak was eradicated by the WD40. The WD40 was given to him by a dead man.

_Impossible? Yeah, well, you still believe the unbelievable, don't you? Despite all the fancy say-so's in your books, you are well aware that Mort the Death Dude is coming for you at beddy-by time. You can run but you cannot hide..._

The feeling hasn't left him. That easy yet solid pressure of Mort's hand over his eyes is less like memory and more like an essence a spirit left behind.

_Oh...really. _

House can still feel those fingers, their touch benevolent the thumb and pinky pressing against either temple, three middle fingers spreading across the center of his brow. There was a gentle strength in that touch, an undeniable power. Once more, it made him feel protected...like nothing could ever hurt him again. Brushing his own hand across his brow, he finds it impossible to deny how much he liked it.

Laughter wafts through his mind like today's balmy breeze. _No. You loved it..._

But he also can't deny that this day sucks-worse than any he's lived through since the afternoon he was shot. He would gladly welcome back the annoying squeal of his chair if it would buy him some peace of mind. Slapping closed the journal, he knows the chances of that happening are less than slim.

The clock is ticking down. Despite assuring himself that all will be well tomorrow, anxiety and fear have returned in full force, vicious and strong, wielding stakes and baring blood tinged fangs. He inhales deeply, attempts to squash them. Linking his fingers, running his tongue across his dry lips, House gazes around his office at all the things that make this room uniquely 'his'. But there is no sense of comfort here, nothing to assure him he isn't headed off on some otherworldly journey in a few hours, never to return.

_Oh, stop with the dramatics. What about Peduncular Hallucinosis?_

He shakes his head and thinks, "Yeah, what about it?"

_Could be what you got._

"Could be."

_Could be Schizophrenia (although at your age it would be pretty rare), could be Dysomia..._

But then...of course...he doesn't _have_ to go. His fingers grasp the edge of the desk as the idea strikes him. It _is_ possible to block Dude Death Guy out. House had unknowingly done it before. Dude had told him so. Sooo, if it worked before, well, hey, why couldn't it work again? The thought is subversive; if it doesn't pan out, the attempt will get him into deep shit. He swallows hard, ducks his head, preparing for the onslaught of pain, that now familiar putrescence that will knock him back, teach him a thing or two.

Nothing. Well, okay, not really _nothing_. There is still that low grade version of the stench that blends easily into the background.

_(it's inside you...)_

Slowly, he eases his grip, noticing and savoring the sudden intensifying ache in his thigh. He rubs his ruined leg slowly, lovingly. How long had it been since he'd fraternized with his old pal V?

"Maybe," he thinks. "Maybe all this nonsense will just...stop now."

Giddy with relief, he digs into his trouser pocket for the nearly forgotten stash of Vicodin. He flips the cap off the bottle, shakes two of the lovelies onto his palm and downs them.

Letting out a long sigh, he sits and waits for the drug to take effect, and it sure doesn't take long. Soon steeped in that familiar floaty haze, he gives a silent 'yahoo' that normalcy has returned. The pain in his thigh obediently wanes; the passel of sharp, deep stabs becomes a chorus of weak, slow throbs. He gathers his books and journals together, setting them in neat piles before him, running his fingers in lazy waves down the spines, along the glossy periodical covers.

He smiles,

_so happy_,

picks up his phone and presses the speed dial button. In a moment he connects with Wilson's cell.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I thought you said you didn't want company."

Wilson's is pissed. His irritation is such that House wouldn't be surprised to see tiny sparks spitting from the handset from the force of it.

"I did?"

"Yes. I distinctly remember you saying you were off to see flatliner, then you were going home."

House could almost see Wilson shirk his shoulders in exasperation and give that annoyed little duck of his chin. "I just thought you might want to go for a beer." He scraped his thumbnail against the polished wood of his desk, hoping Wilson would cave. Home was not a place House cared to go just yet.

"I would have," Wilson tells him, "but when you said you were busy I called Tanya. She's at the supermarket right now, shopping for dinner-"

Tanya from Pediatrics was Wilson's latest 'fun frau'. Typical of most of the oncologist's conquests, she was tall, blonde, blessed with good hips, nice breasts, and a hearty dislike of House.

"You're with her now, aren't you?" House could just about hear the muzak, the tinny "shoppers' special" announcements being broadcast over the store's loudspeakers.

A sigh. "Does it matter?"

"Ohhh, of course not."

In a sotto voice Wilson says, "I could tell her something came up, if you really need-"

"No, no, no, no, no. Puh-leeze go about your business and don't worry about me." House saunters over to his bookshelf and twirls his cane like a baton. "I'll just pick up a six pack on my way home...and I'll be all set."

There is a pensive pause, then a bit of muffled conversation before Wilson asks, "How are you?"

"Groovy."

"How's your leg?"

"It aches."

"Oh," Silence, then,. "Anything I can-"

"You'd better get your ass in gear," House says. "Tanya's probably picking out canned tomatoes, the cheap kind. And you know how you hate those god-awful store brands."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Gotta go. Beer to buy, hookers to ravage."

"House..."

He breaks the connection, brings up his 'contacts' list, and presses the setting marked 'Female Persuasion'. Perhaps tonight is not the night for this, agitation has returned, slinging itself over his shoulders like two ten ton weights. But he needs to have someone with him, just for awhile. Maybe a pleasant diversion will enable him to oust the thought of Mort and the silly ol' threat of abduction from his mind.

The phone burrs twice before being answered by Marie.

"It's short notice, I know," House hangs his head, tamps the rubber tip of his cane against the carpet. "But if you could send someone in an hour..."

As usual, Marie comes through...but not with Paula or Francis, his women of choice. They are previously engaged. Does he have a preference? A type, size, age?

"You know what I like, Marie." His voice is gruff, tinged with impatience. "Surprise me."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He looks at their bodies, not their eyes.

When they attempt small talk, he keeps his head down and quiets them with a word or a simple gesture. Paula and Francis know his ways and have long ceased doing anything but getting him erect, allowing him to put his hands against their tight bellies, their writhing backsides, their heavy, swaying breasts, and riding him until he comes.

Chatting with these women, forming some half-assed intellectual bond, would be senseless and serve only to put him in a foul mood. It is not what he pays them for. But despite his arrogance, his anti-social 'leave me alone' demeanor, he does crave intimacy. With Stacy, he enjoyed the closeness, found the relationship exhilarating, satisfying (though rarely did he put these feelings into words) when things were going well. But this is not what he wants from Paula, Francis or the beautiful young woman undressing before him. With them, simplicity is the key. Their relationship requires no special effort to make it work. He doesn't have to win them over, get in good with their parents, their friends, take them to dinner, woo them. All he has to do is have his orgasm, pay up and go to sleep.

_Well now, you might want to think about pulling an all nighter tonight, son._

And if along the way they happen to enjoy his ministrations, if their moans, groans and sighs are for real, all the better. But it's not what he pays them for.

He lies naked on his bed, head propped up by two pillows, hands behind his head, cock flaccid but not for long. He feels the warmth, the stir, as Elvie (yes, she did mention her name, and yes, he did remember it as he remembers everything) joins him. Elvie is Korean (she told him that too), her long black hair has subtle reddish highlights, her mouth is generous and he wouldn't mind kissing it. He imagines running his tongue along her teeth, then pushing in deeper, seeking, exploring. The thought makes him hard. He likes kissing. But there is a rule about that.

_That...is a no-no._

Ah, well, there are other things they can do...they will do.

Elvie has obviously been given a crash course in the Greg House School of Ruined Legs, since she takes special care when mounting him and manages to avoid putting pressure on his thigh. With an expert's grace, she guides his now very attentive member inside of her. She is wet. He marvels at her arousal. He hasn't done a thing to get her there.

_All in a day's work, Doc. _

Lifting his hands, he cups her breasts, his thumbs playing lightly across her nipples. She begins to move, grinding against him in slow, practiced circles. His heart pounds, his breath quickens. She is intuitive, amazingly so, anticipating how much he can take before surrendering to his climax. She hitches and bucks, then slows her movements, pulling the reins, allowing the pleasure to build more...and more. He groans, enjoying her musky scent, rotating his hips now, loving how deeply he is submerged inside all that molten sweetness.

Closing his eyes, it is all sensation. It is all he needs, the feel of her breasts, the heat, the smell of her sweat, her excitement, how incredibly hard he is inside her.

She's good. _Damn_ she's good. She's prolonging it, not letting him come. The feeling is...extraordinary.

He cries out and opens his eyes to find...the ceiling is gone, the_ room _is gone. In their place is a twilight sky painted violet, embellished with streaks of deep blues and shreds of pastel pink clouds. It is the jogger park sky.

_Beautiful sky..._

No.

Elvie throws her head back, exposing that smooth, long neck. She thrusts out her breasts, like one of those Amazonian women in the National Geographic magazines House used to ogle when he was twelve. Her hips continue to move, swaying to some sensual inner symphony meant only for her. She is moaning, _really_ moaning, not the fake 'oh, you make me come just looking at you' hooker moan she was doing so well-

_before you were so rudely interrupted._

Then he feels it: a breath down his cheek, across the back of his neck, down his spine. It is warm...and putrid. _This is so bad. _Fear lashes at him, which for some reason pushes his excitement up a notch, causing him to groan with pleasure...and dread.

_Get...out._

Laughter howls like a roiling riotous tornado, and it is not just in his ears. It is everywhere, bouncing off the clouds and ricocheting around the room that is no longer a room.

Elvie is absolutely gone. As she mumbles, cries and writhes, her eyes roll back in her head, the whites exposed as her lids flutter. Helpless within his own globe of pleasure, House can't help her. His fists clench and unclench as his hips writhe, bringing him closer and closer to the inevitable...

Gasping, unable to resist, he sinks into a thick mire of overload. Someone's hands are all over him now, caressing his torso, his face, the nape of his neck, tickling the hair just above his ears, running lightly up and down his thighs as Elvie, that bewitching helpmate, pumps away, keeping the rhythm strong.

_Almost there._

The sky dims to a bruised purple, a single tear runs down his cheek...

...as he trembles, grunts and _explodes_, his fingers digging into Elvie's hips as she too shudders, squeals and finally surrenders.

_Again, again and again._

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House lies on his left side, blanket pulled up to the middle of back. His face is half buried in the pillows, arms limp, palms facing up, like some wounded warrior lifted off the battlefield and shoved into triage. His breath rasps shallow and coarse in his chest. Through a heavy lidded right eye he watches Elvie dress.

"Shitty isn't it?" he murmurs.

She gives him a look as she shrugs on her blouse

"The smell-that was bad. Should have warned you..."

Her brow creases as she pouts.

"And how about those hands? Did you feel 'em too?" His voice is too loud and just a teeny bit frantic. "That was Mort. Would have introduced you properly if he let me. A real charmer..."

She shakes her head slowly.

_Shut up. She has no idea what you're babbling about._

"The sky was pretty though. You like the colors...?"

The incomprehension in her eyes gives way to distrust and fear.

Anger creeps up on him like a cat in the dark. This...call girl, hooker or whatever other nicety can be applied to a whore, is the only one who can confirm he is not sick and not totally out of his mind. But for some reason she has forgotten what happened between them only moments ago.

_Hey, maybe it didn't happen like that at all or..._

..._someone crept into her head and made it all go bye bye._

"Do you know what I've been going through all fuckin' day?" He can't help blurt it out.

_That's not helping. The girl thinks you are insane._

Grabbing her purse and jacket from the chair by the door, Elvie mutters heatedly in Korean, then pauses to look at him again. This time her expression is somewhat sympathetic but that wide eyed, 'deer in the headlights' fear remains.

"Sorry."

She turns to leave.

"Your money," he rasps.

She stops and faces him again.

"It's under that yellow can on the dresser." The WD40 can he could have sworn he had left in his office, now sits atop the hundred dollar bill meant for Elvie.

She moves cautiously, deliberately as if navigating a path through a minefield. After plucking the bill from under the can, she rushes from his room and takes her leave.

House hears the click of the front door as it closes. He shuts his eyes, alone again.

"Sorry," he whispers, feeling the first tentative brushstrokes of sleep touch him.

His shoulders relax as his mouth goes slack, his breathing deepens. The smell, that now familiar stench-so much a part of everything-is everywhere, cradling him, enveloping him. Warmth. Someone, somewhere approves. House can sense triumph, a euphoric cry, then a slow seductive call.

_Come along, come along..._

The rush of wind in his head tells him he is on his way to being very, very gone.

_Not a lot of time left, your highness. _

He feels himself being pulled along, flowing, floating on an unrelenting stream. Around him? Nothing. Whites, grays, hints of cloudy murk. It's nice, though. He doesn't mind it. Doesn't have to think. It's as if he's downed about a dozen Vicodin after shooting a syringe full of Morphine into his arm.

_Not much time. Think about stuff. Fill your mind with...anything but this._

If he's going to combat this euphoria it has to be now. But the task will be Herculean, like pushing a truck up Mount Rushmore.

_Picture yourself back in your room. Focus...focus. Stop enjoying this so much! There are two pillows under your head. Feel them, make them real._

His hand. _Concentrate. _Fingers, one, two, three, four five. He flexes them, then reaches beyond the white mire to clench cotton, down filled softness, solidity.

_Good. Now...you're thirsty, parched. Get your lazy ass out of that bed and have a drink. Remember the beer you bought? Should be nice and cold by now. Second shelf in the fridge...picture it._

He forces himself to focus on the contents of his nearly empty fridge: the butter, eggs, three bagels, leftover chicken sandwich...and the beer. The thought of how much he wants it, how good the brew will feel trickling down his gullet pulls reality closer. He runs his tongue over his upper lip. The tickle of stubble is real, solid, true. The whiteness dissipates, the movement slows. Someone, somewhere shouts an epithet, a warning, a threat.

_Doesn't matter. It. Doesn't. Matter._

With a gasp, he blinks his eyes open and crushes his pillows to his chest.

_Alright, alright, you just might be okay. For now._

After a few moments, when his heartbeat slows and sanity returns to clap him on the back, he takes a chance and allows his mind to turn his thoughts over and over.

_What next, genius?_

_Okay_. First, he needs to get out of bed, away from the rumpled sheets and the smell of sex and sweat. It's bad enough having _eau de Mort_ continuing to circle over Gregland International. He doesn't need the others joining in.

_Right. _His lower back sends up a complaint as he grunts and pushes himself to a sitting position. With some effort, he shifts his body around, places his left foot on the floor, then the demon right and separates his jeans, boxers and t-shirt from of the tangle of bedding.

_Phew! Okay, up and at 'em, killer_

He stands, shivering as he pulls on his underwear, t-shirt and jeans. His body aches but the floor feels solid and right beneath his feet as he makes his way slowly, sans cane, to the kitchen. He opens the fridge, pulls out a can of beer and holds it to his brow. The aluminum, moist with condensation, cools his burning skin. He savors the feeling, rolling the can along his temples, his cheeks, his neck, and can't help but wonder how the hell this is all going to end.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Thanks for reading.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

Special thanks to NaiveEve, beta extraordinaire and most excellent friend!

**-6-**

Myrna Bromfeld, or Nurse Myrna as she is known to her colleagues, is glad that it's Wednesday. At 7 A.M., two hours from now, her work at the hospital will be done. _Bliss._ She can then go home, luxuriate in a hot bath for an hour, down a breakfast of Grape Nuts and bananas and sleep, sleep, sleep. She is relatively free: no classes on Wednesdays and no work. _That_ is charisma. But, as usual, she is not completely off the hook. Homework and studying await. She has almost completed work on her Associate of Science in Nursing degree, which will enable her to advance from her current position as a Licensed Practical Nurse to a Registered Nurse. Finals are in two weeks. To attain the goal she has coveted since deciding on a healthcare career at twenty three (eight years ago), is more important to her than anything else.

Now she sits behind Princeton-Plainsboro's first floor reception desk and turns another page in her textbook. Highlighter poised between two fingers, she reads the first paragraph of the chapter on blood work. Murmuring a few pertinent details to herself, she notes a particularly key passage by dragging the highlighter's yellow tip across the text.

A sudden waft of cool air riffles her hair, plays against her cheeks, interrupting her work. Setting her marker in the center of her book, she raises her head and watches a sorry looking soul hobble through the entranceway. The door slides closed behind him. At first she doesn't recognize him; his shoulders sag as his body leans hard against his cane, his gaze set grimly on the blue carpet. Beneath a rumpled suit jacket his shirt hangs over his belt like a crumpled relic. The shirt is a mass of wrinkles; two of its buttons are undone. His stubble is one day shy of being a beard; his graying brown hair sticks out in tufts. He reminds Myrna of one of the street people who occasionally tries to take shelter here for the night. It is only when he stumbles back into a seat by the window that she places him.

"Dr. House?"

His brow creases as he lifts his gaze toward her. "Halloo, Myrna."

Rumors fly. Tales of misery and hitting bottom travel faster than cute puppy stories and reports of good deeds done. There have been whispers, stories making the rounds-bits of chatter about his erratic behavior, a brain scan scheduled for later this morning. One of the CNA's claims she saw him sobbing in the second floor stairwell yesterday.

He is an enigma, an intriguing man. Myrna knows him more by his reputation than from bumping into him in the cafeteria or dealing with him in a professional capacity. Some of the nurses are intimidated by his arrogance, his gruffness. But he doesn't seem threatening now, looking more like some poor bastard who needs a shower and a good night's rest. But...what does she know? She doesn't see him much. For one thing their work hours are polar opposites, literally day and night.

But on occasion he'll saunter in early, coffee cup in hand, pack slung over his shoulder and start a conversation with her. She's pretty good on the upswing, rolling right along with his quirky wit. Perhaps that's why he bothers. But he doesn't seem so 'on' this morning. She observes him in quick, covert glances as he stares off into space, tapping the tip of his cane against his chair leg. She can't help wishing he looked better. When he runs a hand through his hair she notices the tremor in his fingers.

He seems troubled, ill, _haunted_.

"It's kind of early for you to be out and about," she says, tossing him a smile, keeping her tone light.

At first she thinks he hasn't heard her. He blinks at that spot he has been focused on for the past few moments and then drags his gaze to meet hers again. "Couldn't sleep."

"Sorry to hear it. Anything I can do?"

A corner of his mouth tugs up before settling back into place just as quickly. She clears her throat, rolls the highlighter between her fingers. A break would be nice. She could call for Nurse Randy to relieve her so she can get some tea, take a pee. But...no, she can't. House's eyes hold her. Like a firm hand on her shoulder, they keep her in her chair.

"Yes," he says.

"Oookay." The affirmative was not the response she was hoping for.

He rises slowly, wincing. She can see how much he depends on that cane; his knuckles are white around its handle as he bears into it, lines etch deeper into his face and around his eyes from the effort of his movements, his shuffling approach. His shoulders are hunched; they probably ache, stiff from a night of tossing and turning as he searched in vain for sleep.

He stops at the desk, digs into his pocket and brings out his wallet from which he plucks a fifty. "Here," he says, waving the bill at her.

"What's this?" Myrna frowns; her two middle fingers brush the money..

"For Manuel...his family."

"Ah, the collection." She brightens, takes the fifty and tucks it into a large manila envelope. "That's very generous, Doctor."

He grunts and gestures at her book with a languid wave of his finger. "What are you doing?"

"Studying." She forces her head down, away from those eyes. "I've got finals in a couple of weeks."

"You want to be an RN?"

"Yes." She meets his gaze again. "I do."

"The RN's here are bitches. They think they own the place." He favors her with a tilt of his chin. "You gonna be like that?"

"A bitch?" She laughs, sniffles, reaches for a tissue to dab her nose. Allergies. "Not me."

"Good." His eyes take a jaunt around her desk before settling back on her. "Where are your magazines?"

"What?" For a moment she gets the impression he's going lash out at her for her occasional choice of low grade reading matter.

"Those magazines I see you reading sometimes." His fingers drum against the desk. "_People_, _The Inquirer, Vanity Fair,_ _Details."_

"In...my bottom drawer." Patting the drawer in question, she asks, "Looking for some intellectual literary material?"

"I need to get some sleep," he says.

"Reading those should do the trick."

"Will you read to me?"

She gawps at him like he has six ears and a harelip.

"Let me see what you have," His tone is irritation mixed with a smattering of desperation. "Come on, come on." He indicates the drawer with a jerk of his hand.

"Oookay, Doctor."

"Call me House." He quirks that grin again before losing it in the ozone. "All my rowdy friends do."

"I don't think-"

His look is absolutely earnest. "Please."

Myrna opens the drawer, lifts out the pile of magazines and pushes them across the desk for him to see.

He gives each one a quick study, scanning the pages, sometimes pausing to read a passage or two. "This one."

"_This_ is what you want me to read you? She removes the magazine from the pile and flips through it. "_Us_ _Weekly_?"

"Got something against pop culture tabloid crap?"

"No."

"Then get your relief out here and meet me in my office." He starts toward the elevators before adding, "STAT."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

He doesn't bother turning on the lights, finding the shadows and pockets of darkness oddly comforting. Soon, that rosy pink daylight will push its way between the blinds, a symbolic opening to another chapter of this hellish tale. Hopefully he can sneak in a few hours sleep before the strangeness returns.

Maybe it wasn't his best idea to ask Myrna to help him out. No sense ruining another innocent bystander's day.

_But, hey, you're a selfish bastard_.

It was so _easy_ to persuade her to help. Sometimes all he has to do is simply...ask to achieve exactly what he wants. Maybe it is his manner, his delivery, his rough hewn charm or bum leg that does the trick. And then there is always that intimidation factor, which in some cases is the most effective way to go. Persuading people by chewing them up and spitting them out works incredibly well on most days, and it can be oodles of fun too. Regardless, he doesn't get told 'no' very often. And this morning he needs the security of another person with him, yakking away about inane stuff, while he dozes off.

_What about your pal Mort? _

Dude's laying low for awhile. House _feels _it, as one would sense the time of day or the presence of an animal in the brush.

_What a bunch of hokum. Have you actually fallen for this? Mort could be the product of a nasty old tumor or a glitch in the wiring of those crusty circuits of yours. Puh-leeze, tell me you don't believe this crap._

No. Of course he doesn't. He does not. Does. Not.

Behind him there is a soft knock on the door.

"Come in."

The door clicks opens as he settles back in his Eames chair and stretches his legs out onto its footrest. Myrna steps softly into his field of vision. He smiles up at her. Her eyes are filled with questions she would love to ask but he is certain she won't.

"Hello."

"You know," she says, her words tumbling out, "you could just play the radio or your discs." She points to the headphones and CD player by his desk. "I would think that would be more helpful than listening to me rattle off facts about Tom Cruise's latest escapades."

"Sometimes one needs flesh and blood, the human element," He folds his hands across his chest and closes his eyes. "to keep the bad guys away."

"Bad guys?"

He gives her a look. "I think it's amazing how much press a horse's ass like Tom Cruise gets. Don't you?"

She squints at the magazine in the half light. "He was good in _Top Gun."_

"That's a girly movie, as are most of his films." House smirks. "Don't tell me you're a fan?"

"What if I am?"

"Don't let the pretty face fool you. He probably sucks in bed."

Setting one hand on her hip, Myrna returns his smirk. "And how would you know that?"

"Friends in high places." His eyes close again as he lowers his voice. "Read to me."

"There's no light in here."

"Turn on the lamp by the window. There's a chair right next to it. Sit there." His head tilts to one side. Already he feels himself falling.

Myrna is a decent reader. Her tone is warm and expressive as she regales him with stories of Brangelina, Tom and Katie and all the latest dirt from the Hollywood hills. He drifts off and her voice remains with him, providing the soundtrack to his dreams, keeping him safe. For now.

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"House."

A hand grips his upper arm, shaking him gently.

_Whozzat?_

His stomach lurches, his heart misses a smattering of beats before stuttering back to form. Panic slaps him upside the head and his mouth falls open in response. What begins as a startled cry ends up a strangled croak. He suddenly remembers he is in his office, comfortably settled in his Eames chair. Nearby, Joe Cocker is singing "Cry Me A River." House moans and brings his hand up to cover his face.

"House."

He lets his hand fall to his side and opens his eyes to find Wilson standing over him. Wilson's shirt is white, crisp and new, his tie is tied perfectly, his hair blown dry ju-ust right.

"Yes. You're gorgeous, now get out," House mumbles, letting his eyes drift closed, shutting out the world again.

"House, Foreman's only got the MRI machine for an hour."

"Where's Myrna?"

"She went home a little over three hours ago."

"Why'd she leave?" With some effort, he leans forward and, using two hands, grips his right leg and eases it from the footrest to the floor.

"It's called having a life. You remember what that's like, don't you?"

House scratches his stubble. Then, gripping the side of the chair, he manages to push himself to his feet. "She should have stayed like I asked her to."

"She took off when I got here. As it is, she hung around longer than she should have. Said she was worried about you and kept the music playing when she left so you wouldn't feel alone." Wilson snorts and gives a half shake of his head. "Why do people to care so much about you when you are such an incredible ass?"

"That is a question which shall be etched into the lavatory walls of this establishment upon my demise and be bandied about for eons."

Wilson bites back a smile and hands House his cane. "Let's go."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House fully expects to have an 'episode' in the MRI chamber. He has a wicked feeling of foreboding, as if moments ago he was sailing on a calm, clear lake but now finds himself sinking into some roiling murky sea. A sudden realization hits him. Wow. He is falling apart, like one of those old jalopies in an ancient Max Fleischer cartoon. First the tires go flat, then the motor crashes through the bottom, then the little things like the radio and the wipers die. It is all going bye-bye. He chortles softly, without a trace of humor. What better place to consider such things than in a cramped, enclosed space-alone and vulnerable?

The noise of the machine, that loud, disruptive banging is trying its best to muddy his thoughts. But he has a decision to make and refuses to allow the noise to intrude. Squeezing his eyes shut, he runs his predicament over and over in his head, listing the facts on his personal white board.

**Peduncular Hallucinosis**

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

**Mort is invisible to everyone but him**.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

**No one noticed the now infamous stench except for himself and Manuel-and Manuel is dead.**

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

**Was he hallucinating when spoke with Manuel or had it been a true spectral moment?**

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

**Elvie had no memory of the unusual events that transpired during their 'transaction'. **

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

**He had an extraordinary reprieve from his leg pain.**

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

**Mort hadn't made a 'personal' appearance since yesterday afternoon. **

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

**And how about that WD40 can? Was his mind playing tricks? Was he carrying it around, setting it here and there without being aware he was doing so?**

_Manuel handed it to you. And Manuel's dead._

Just another brick in the wall...

_Bangity, bang, bang, bang!_

Once the MRI scans are done, he will have to decide whether or not Mort actually exists. If the scans reveal a tumor, his decision will have been made for him and surgery will more than likely take care of the problem. But if there are no masses growing in his head, that will mean the problem is either chemical, psychological...

...or nonr of the above.

_Believe or don't believe._

But he doesn't want to go there, doesn't want to think there really is an entity bent on hiring him on as a court jester.

_The idea does sound lame when you put it that way._

"Almost done, House." Foreman's voice blares through the speakers. "You okay?"

"Just dandy."

That fetid smell is nearly gone. He is somewhat calmer now; that feeling of foreboding is ebbing away, as if the events of the last twenty four hours were nothing more than pieces of an intense, horrific dream.

He feels...better.

_Well looky here. That old jalopy's getting some body work done. Can't promise it's not going to have some dings and creaks and rust spots but it'll get you where you want to go._

Strange. Maybe working out the problem in his head bit by bit, piece by piece, is what he should have been doing all along.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Nothing."

Foreman, House and Wilson are seated before the lighted screen in the diagnostics room. On the screen are six MRI scans of House's brain.

"Nothing there, House," Wilson crosses his arms across his chest.

"I see that."

Foreman asks, "Are you still experiencing phantom smells?"

"Not any more."

"They've gone? Just like that?"

"Yep."

"I'd like to run a few more tests." Foreman jots something on the chart in his lap. "do some blood work..."

"Not today." House's voice is, gruff, weary, He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Tomorrow."

"...and I think you should see Schiller."

House lifts his head and scowls at the mention of the staff psychiatrist. "I don't need that pompous ass putting his slimy feelers inside my head."

"Too late." Wilson says. "I made an appointment for you. Tomorrow morning. 9 A.M."

Pouting like a petulant child, House kicks the toe of his sneaker against the floor. "If I had a tumor I wouldn't have to go."

"A tune-up never hurts."

"You suck."

"You're welcome." Wilson smiles.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This normalcy of the day, the uneventful way it has so far progressed gives House hope. Maybe the creepy, troublesome intrusion on his life has sprouted wings, tucked its tail inside its black skin tight jeans and taken its leave.

Those few hours of sleep helped clear his head. And working through his ordeal on that mental white board gave him a clearer, more rational picture of what was real and what was not. Everything will be explained, he tells himself-explained, diagnosed and boiled down to its essence.

_Eventually..._

His team presents him with a case, which is the most therapeutic, positive thing he could have hoped for. He stands at the white board, marker in hand, waiting for the trio to burst out with a long list of symptoms and a gaggle of sensible hypotheses.

Instead he gets Cameron gazing at him with those doe-like eyes, which he finds appealing on some days but not now. "So you don't have a tumor?"

He slams his marker on top of the board. "Not relevant."

"You feeling better?" Chase asks.

"Not applicable."

"Come on, House." Foreman gestures at Chase and Cameron. "They just want to know-"

"Then _you_ tell them," House takes a step forward and swats a chair leg with his cane. "on your own damn time."

A small smile crosses Cameron's face. "It's good to see you're feeling better."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day continues to pass more smoothly than he would have expected. Work keeps his mind busy, steeping him further into blessed normalcy. Seeking out 'normal' was not a game House usually played but today he is an active participant.

After a couple of hours of putting his energies into differential diagnoses, he hands Cameron and Chase blood work assignments and gives Foreman a Lumbar Puncture to do. He then retreats from his team, telling them to present their findings to him in the morning or, if necessary, call him on his cell. This way they will have something to jabber about and hash over besides the Mysterious Land of Gregdom.

He heads to his office, saunters onto the balcony with an actual spring in his step and pokes his head into Wilson's office.

"Yo."

Wilson sets his pen on his papers. "You seem chipper."

"Never better." House slides the door all the way open, then shuts it with a flourish, using the handle of his cane. He smirks proudly as he strolls into the room. After twirling the cane a couple of times, he hooks it over the back of the chair by the desk.

"Cuddy still wants to know if you've come up with any ideas as to why those three people died yesterday."

"Tell her..." Tapping his lower lip with his forefinger, House considers his response. "Tell her I've got nothing she can use."

"Which means...?"

"Which means 'no'."

"Okay...so," Wilson hitches his shoulders, lifts his hands. "the phantom smells-they're gone?"

"They are gone, gone, goodbye." He takes a seat.

"No more crying jags in stairwells?"

"Nope."

Wilson purses his lips, lets out a long breath.

"What?"

"Symptoms like yours don't come and go that quickly. You know that."

"I just know that I feel great."

"Mood swings. Going from the pits to the zenith is one symptom of an impending breakdown or bipolar disorder."

"Boy, you just love throwing ice water on the party, don't you?" House's eyes wander over Wilson's exceptionally tidy desk. He reaches over, lifts up a stack of papers, then slaps it down with a frustrated grunt. "What happened to that candy dish you used to keep here?"

"Obviously I don't have it any more." Wilson wrenches open his bottom drawer, initiates a brief search and comes up with the goods. "Here." He holds out a Tootsie Pop.

House brightens as he snatches the candy from Wilson's hand. "Root beer. Damn good stuff." He tears off the cellophane, tosses it at Wilson then pops the lolly in his mouth.

"Let Foreman run those tests on you tomorrow," Wilson accentuates each word with a jab of his pen. "And make sure you keep that appointment with Schiller."

House twirls his tongue around the candy. "Your problem is that you worry too much."

"Let me clue you into something," Wilson enunciates slowly and carefully as if speaking to a small child. "Friends help friends. Friends worry about friends."

"And friends can be major pains in the butts." He jabs the lolly at Wilson. "I will get the exam. I will talk to Schiller the Ass. So don't you worry your tousled brown haired head about it no mo'."

"Good."

"How about a beer later?"

Wilson laces his fingers. "Your place?"

"No..." He is suddenly...

_...cold as a graveyard at midnight..._

"You okay?" Wilson leans forward, cocks his head, wearing the face he usually reserves for his most needful patients. "You're shivering."

"No. I'm not." House averts his gaze as he rubs his hands together. "So how about that beer?"

"Sure." Wilson's voice is soft. "Sure."

"O'Reilly's at seven?"

"Sounds good."

House shoves the Tootsie Pop in his mouth, then pushes against his cane for leverage as he rises to his feet.

_The thing is, Wilson knows you too damn well. He knows about the tight ball of anxiety in your gut that refuses to take a hike. How would it be to live without that kind of scrutiny-to not have a friend blessed with that amount of irksome insight?_

House doesn't feel like guessing and refuses to mull it over. What he wants is to take his leave. So he sets himself in motion, traipsing across the balcony to his office. Placing his fingers over the handle, he is about to slide his door open when he notices the sky: violet hues, pink and magenta clouds drifting. Drifting.

_Beautiful..._

The chills begin at his shoulders, conjoin at the top of his spine and take a joyride down his back.

_Heck_. He lets out a tremulous breath. _Heck._ He really thought he was getting better.

_Well, old man, looks like you just may have thought wrong._


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! I appreciate your comments and concrits.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

Special thanks to NaiveEve for being an excellent beta!

**-7-**

It is 5:00 and the elevator is packed. He scowls at the crush of doctors, nurses, patients, caregivers and decides to let the car go. The wait is worth not having to squash in next to those...people.

The next car is strangely empty, like it is meant just for him.

_Now you're suspicious of elevator cars. Doc Schiller's going to have a field day with you..._

He presses the 'L' button, tucks away his apprehension and allows a slow grin to slide across his face in anticipation of his imminent freedom. In his mind he is already enjoying the comfort of his Corvette's leather seat, the rich rugged smell of the interior, the way the motor thrums as he hitches his baby into first gear.

_You are such a loser._

Watching the lights make their backwards foray to Lobby, he decides he is feeling better again.

_You think...?_

5...4...3...2...1...

Ding!

The car stops at 'L'. The doors slide open and House steps into the quiet corridor. He gazes around slowly and...runs his tongue across his lower lip, eyes moving, probing, searching.

_Baby's got a baa-aad feeling..._

Heart racing faster than his Corvette on the interstate, he spins around as the elevator rumbles off for parts unknown. Painted on the wall in ultra gloss black is a large numeral '2',

_Make no mistake about where you are, old man._

He knows exactly where he is but he sure isn't happy about it.

"It's suppose to say 'L', " House complains to the Pine-Sol scented corridor. "Lobby."

Laughter, grotesque as a clown in blackface, plays in his head, mocking him, as fluttery fingers trip the light fantastic in his gut. A niggling sense of panic is growing too, expanding, bulging in all the wrong places like some misshapen helium balloon.

_Grip the string. Let it take you away._

"Nope," He presses his lips together tightly as he punches the 'down' button.

_Well_, _hey, take a gander up there-above the elevator bank. _

Those arrows are putting on a show, flashing red and yellow in a merry rhythm, letting him know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he ain't goin' nowhere.

_Up, Down, Up. Up Down, Up. Up, Up, Down, Down. Cha, cha, cha! _

His breath hitches, hot and dry in his throat.

_Looks like you're in deep shit again, my friend._

"Nope."

_I believe thou doth protest a bit too much._

There's the stairwell.

_Go for it._

The laughter speaks to him, taunts him, infuriates him as he propels himself toward the stairs.

_You are aware that it's ridiculous to even make the attempt._

He thrusts the tip of his cane against the door and shoves...hard. The door flies open with an unusually loud _whoosh_, his palm tingles against his cane's handle, as if the rubber coated metal is infused with electricity. There is a crackle and spark, which stings his skin but gives him an odd sense of strength.

_Don't you fret none, my man. It's all in your mind. _

The stairwell is cool but there is an unpleasant dampness here too, like a basement that has long been abandoned...or...

_...a graveyard at midnight._

And hey, whaddya know? This is turning out to be a _real _fine party. Old pal Stench is your host and what a generous fellow he is, offering up a gift: an olfactory amalgam of urine, feces vomit, animal corpses, stagnant pond water and garbage left too long in the sun. Images of these elements play in House's head, lovingly displayed in glorious Technicolor.

He feels sick; his stomach churns, the stairwell takes a spin like a seat on a Tilt-A-Whirl. But he soldiers on, making each lurching step count.

When he reaches the first floor landing he allows himself to pause, drag in a few deep slow breaths through his mouth to get the nausea under control. He then manages to convince himself that the fetid smell is not all that bad when really it is getting worse...and worse...and worse.

One more flight of stairs. Wrapping his fingers tightly around the handrail, he scowls at those steps as if they are the enemy. He _knows_ they don't number more than twenty or so. But the longer he thinks and ponders and worries, the more the steps appear to multiply until there are a hundred of them stretching down a mile.

If he can do this, if he can just get past the stench and the shadows and sinuous chortling in his mind, he will reach the lobby entrance and from there will be home free.

His cane, his only ally in this battle, is a good scout, always one step ahead, checking out the route, rubber tip against stair, tip against stair, tip...against...stair. He keeps his eyes trained on his feet, his cane, feet, cane.

_Step...thump...step...thump..._

Suddenly there are no stairs left to descend. The metal door before him is marked with a red foot high "L". He shuffles back a step, frowns and lifts his cane to trace the letter with the rubber tip.

_Yes, genius, that there is "L", the twelfth letter of the alphabet. It just happens to start such words as loon, loner, loser, and your favorite and mine...LOBBY._

"Lobby." House rolls the word around his tongue. It tastes sweet, like marzipan or those orange candy slices Wilson used to keep on his desk.

Lowering his head, he gazes at his Shox, taps his cane against the gray cement floor, readying himself.

_Let's go._

He raises the cane, sets the tip against the center of the "L" and...staggers forward as he...pushes. The door opens. Hot white light invades the stairwell, forcing his pupils to contract. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he takes two steps forward and blinks at his surroundings. The slow realization hits him, as the shivers ride up his back and down his arms, and he can't help chuckle along with that riot of laughter rolling and tumbling in his head.

Painted on the wall, across from where he stands, is the number two in all its glossy black glory.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

House decides he will stay right here. Forever. His team can call him on his cell; he can diagnose patients over the phone. Hell, it's the way he prefers things anyway.

_Seriously, though..._

Today the second floor is quiet. No panicked footfalls, no nurses rushing around with crash carts, responding to code blue alerts. It's almost as if yesterday's fiasco was all a bad dream.

_You wish..._

Today there are soft murmurs, bits of chatter, a TV spouts the news. The mood is sedate. The staff, patients and some lost souls who haunt this place, seemingly without purpose, saunter by, going about their business, riding the elevators. _The elevators. _He sighs, wishing he could be so lucky. His eyes track the riders as they enter the cars and go up, down, to any damn floor they choose: first, third, yes, even the lobby. The idea of taking a chance and casually catching the next ride sounds good. But no, it wouldn't work. He would somehow end up here with his back to the wall again, looking and feeling like a fool. It would be a complete waste of time, a useless ploy that would serve only to postpone the inevitable.

So he pops two Vicodin and sets off down the hall to where he needs to go--to where he is _expected_ to go. The feeling of not having a choice in the matter would usually rile him. But the pills and..._something else_ are quelling that anger, not giving it a chance to germinate, gradually making everything seem ju-ust fine.

_Come along...come along..._That smooth voice plays in his head, easing his fears, giving him a sense of _rightness_ about this little jaunt.

He turns the corner, spies his destination...

_Room 27._

...and he feels it then, that sense of elation, of knowing this is where he is meant to be.

Room 27: white letters and numbers etched into a rectangular black plate attached to the side of the door. Like a blind man, he lets his fingers caress the characters, tracing the texture of the curves and lines as he waits...waits...

_...for the sound..._

of the cart. Soapy water is in the bucket,

_(you can smell the ammonia from here)_

spaghetti mop at the ready, attached to the cart whose wheels squeak and squeal, rolling wearily along. The cart is just around the corner. Last time it scared him shitless. But not today.

Without hesitation he turns the corner and spies Manuel hard at work, pushing his mop in slow circles around the white tiled floor.

"Hey." House approaches, digging into his jacket pocket and pulling out the WD40 can. "Here."

Manuel looks up, continuing to move that mop up and back. "You keep."

Three nurses approach, their footfalls quick and purposeful. They chatter away and seem not to notice that they are walking _through_ the cart. House gives their retreating forms a quick look before turning his attention to Manuel again.

"It follows me." House shakes the can then and stuffs it into the pail next to the ammonia bottle and window spray. "No quiero."

The busy man's only response is a shrug.

House returns the shrug, turns and begins to walk away. He is expected elsewhere.

Manuel calls after him. "Doctor, gracias por el dinero para mi familia...mi esposa..."

_Thank you for the money for my family...my wife..._

"De nada." House raises one hand in reply without looking back.

_Very good. How generous you are. _

He is glad the voice is back. The feel of it moving over him is nice, like a slow, loving caress.

_So...what have we learned, Doctor?_

"We have learned that fear is a defense, a way to postpone the inevitable," he recites without moving his lips.

_And?_

Facing up to your fears is good for the soul.

_That is excellent. You are doing so well._

The thought of how fearful he had once been amuses him.

_(tickles your funny bone, as your Oma used to say) _

What a difference a day makes.

He lets out a sharp shard of laughter, causing a few nurses and a couple of patients to toss him looks of concern and surprise as they pass.

_Ssssh. _The voice in his head soothes him, warms him. A hand squeezes his shoulder. _You're doing fine. _

Fear is still out there in that other place, crashing and pummeling against the dam walls but it ain't gettin' in. Not on Greg's watch.

_You're doing fine._

His hand brushes the doorknob.

_Come along, Doctor. Come along._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Something is wrong.

Outside the room was benevolence. In here a malevolent gray glaze has settled over flatliner, the tubes, the IV drip and the blonde man-thing creature lounging in a chair by the bed. Mort leans to one side, chin against hand, elbow against the armrest, one leg is slung over the other. He cocks a brow and smiles and House can't help but reciprocate.

But smile or no smile, Dude is pissed off, frustrated. The undulating, gelatinous air clues House into the guy's mood.

"I have to tell you, you're a real challenge," Mort says, his leg swinging. "Consider that a compliment."

"It's been said I'm a hard case." House approaches the sleeping patient. His gaze travels over the tubes, the monitor. He reaches to adjust the drip.

"Don't."

The glaze shimmers, throwing off points of white and silver that burst like tiny novas before House's eyes. Undaunted, he finishes adjusting the IV.

"You are pushing it," Mort coos in a gentle yet scolding way.

House 'gets' the message, the warning. It is so obvious, so in his face. But the fear is gone. And without the fear he doesn't care about consequences.

"Just doing my job."

Mort seems to float away from the chair, boot heels barely grazing the floor as he drifts along, situating himself next to House. House can sense the solidity of that body. The _realness_. There is heat coming off it as well as that now familiar stench of rot and cologne. Mort purrs and twice winds his tail around House's legs.

A slow smirk creeps across House's lips. "Your place or mine?"

"You didn't hold to your side of the bargain." Mort says.

"I know. I'm a cad, ain't I?"

"The offer still stands."

"I never accepted your offer. It was thrust upon me." House replies. "Oh, about last night. Was it good for you?"

Dude shakes his head slowly, sadly. "I've alleviated your pain, I've taken away your fear and still you have no conception of what I'm offering you."

"I was in a stairwell that reeked like a sewage plant, and rode an elevator that had a jones for the second floor. Is that how you think you'll entice me to take your offer?"

"You have to learn," Mort tells him, "that you get what you give. You refuse to repay a kindness, you suffer the consequences. All I'm asking for is an evening, one evening to show you-"

"Take your offer elsewhere. There are plenty other arrogant, sarcastic, MENSA caliber professionals in this world," House says. "Bring one of them the joy. I don't want it."

"I want you."

"Well, I don't want _you_. So deal with your unrequited lust. Go cry in your wine or whatever it is you...things suck down to get off."

"You don't know what you want. And you won't appreciate what you have until it's taken away." Mort's tail pulls tighter around House's calves, causing House to wince and sway in place.

Sighing, House hangs his head and in his best overblown melodramatic voice replies, "You know, I once had a piece of thigh muscle I loved and lost. We spent every moment together. It was..." He shakes his head slowly. "...a part of me and...I...miss it." His lower lip trembles. "So I know what it's like to be on that losing end." His voice cracks. "I...know."

"Ah, but you see...you don't know. Not really. Not like this..."

Suddenly he finds himself...lost, adrift, like a child's balloon floating off into the mist. And when the realization hits him that he is an exile, doomed to remain in this vast, empty, incomparably sad place, his fear returns. Solitude never bothered him. But this is different. Here there is no sky, no earth, no air. It is a Purgatory of sorts...but not really. Purgatory is a waiting room. This place is...forever.

The snap of Mort's fingers brings him back. House catches his breath, blinks through the haze, and wonders how long he has been gone. Now his right leg is bitching at him, his arms, back and neck ache. It's as if a Mack truck rolled over his body and left him to die. Something's changed, something's gone totally skewed.

"Did you like that?" Mort asks.

"No," House rasps, the residual fear from his vision clawing at him.

Sighing, Mort drapes an arm around House's shoulder. "That's what will happen to you without my intervention." Pulling House closer, Mort's breath warms him as he whispers, "You're a difficult one, a real pain in the butt. They won't know what to do with you so they'll stick you there. Maybe not forever. But certainly long enough."

"Thought you were the man." House rubs his brow, cursing the fear that is now a shivering ball of goo inside his entrails.

"Everyone answers to someone." Mort smiles. "You know that."

Now he is moving, stumbling and staggering forward as if dragged along by an unseen hand. He attempts to slow his progress by leaning hard on his cane, but the cane, his old friend, his only ally, bends and twists beneath his weight. He wonders about this as his body careens into the foot of the bed and takes a hard, ungraceful spill. Groaning as his right leg screams, he hefts the cane with both hands, bends it down the middle then releases one end, marveling, despite his pain, as it wobbles back into place.

_It is...a gummy cane._

Gummy. Like the air, like his mind.

"So tonight it is, Doctor." Mort looms over him, whirling the air with one finger like he is stirring a thick soup. Eddies of that gray air spin down, twirling and dissipating before House's eyes.

"I guess."

"Don't disappoint me."

"Nope." House bites his lower lip and rubs his thigh.

"Promise?"

"Mmm hmm." He wishes Mort would just..._go away_.

"Oh, before I go-"

House tosses him a pained smirk.

"-just to give you a head's up-"

_Yeah?_

-you might want to know that this guy-" Mort tilts his head toward flatliner.

_Shit. Here it comes, boss..._

"-is done for."

Three things happen in quick succession:

Flatliner flatlines. The monitor _screees_ its alarm; the gray haze breaks apart like sugar glass, taking Mort with it.

In the time it takes House to shake himself from his stupor and struggle to his feet, he realizes that a crew should have already been in the room with a crash cart, paddles at the ready.

"Damn...damn!" He ignores the torment his joints are handing out and hobbles to the door using his new, improved _solid _cane. With a grunt he shoulders the door open and shouts, "I need a crash cart in here. STAT!"

His heart pounds a thunderous rhythm against his ribs. He intends to do whatever it takes to keep flatliner alive until help arrives.

_But...wait. _Behind him is the clink of a cup, the rattle of silverware. Someone coughs. House whips around to find...

...that.flatliner is too busy enjoying his dinner of chicken, corn and mashed potatoes to think about dying right now. The ancient guy from yesterday sits at his bedside. They stare at House. Flatliner holds his fork halfway between his plate and his gaping mouth. The old timer emits a couple of nervous yuks.

"Is there a problem here, Doctor?" the stern voice attacks him from the rear.

With some hesitation, House turns toward that voice, already knowing what he will see.

_And there they are-_

-the four person medical team waiting with the crash cart.

_-and they hate you._

Their eyes meet his, shift collectively to the patient, who is alive and spooning up his lime green jello, then swing questioningly, accusingly back to House.

He makes a great show of looking at his watch, after which he raises his eyes and glares at them. "This was a test, which, I'm sorry to say, you failed miserably. If this patient had to depend on you to save his life he'd be dead now." He pushes past them and growls, "You're useless."

As he tromps down the corridor to the elevators, he can sense the four of them planting virtual daggers in his back. This fills his heart with joy. In spite of everything, he can at least be certain he hasn't lost that magic touch.

_Damn you're good. Hey, what time did your watch say, old man?_

5:06.

He swallows hard as he reaches the elevator bank. His fingers move to press the 'down' button twice before actually getting the job done..

_5:06? Why, hell, that's only six minutes later than when you first started your bad awful trip to the lobby. Seems like you spent a lot longer than that mucking about here, don't it?_

It sure does.

_Good thing you're going to O'Reilly's with Wilson later._

Good thing.

_Getting plastered sounds like a suitable goodbye gift to yourself._

I'm _not_ saying goodbye...

_Alrighty then. So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight..._

The elevator doors slide open. Inside is a young woman in a wheelchair, a middle aged man wearing a sweater vest and khakis, and two teenage girls whispering in the corner. House saunters in, turns and watches the door close...

...and for just this one sparkling moment, he feels safe.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks **to NaiveEve for taking the time to read and beta this story. Her help has been immeasurable.

**-8-**

House chose to spend beer night at O'Reilly's, which suits Wilson fine. A local watering hole, it doubles as a reception hall and is conveniently located around the corner from House's apartment. Casual and comfortable, it boasts friendly bartenders and 'world famous' chicken wings.

But O'Reilly's is not always House's choice for Tuesday night beer fest. Occasionally he opts for The Bistro in downtown Princeton, a place more apt to be filled with rowdy drunks than quiet, reflective inebriates. More of a club than a pub, it is busy and bustling and hosts The Battle of the Jazz Bands on Tuesday and Friday nights. When House got loose, after his third or fourth beer, he could easily be persuaded to sit in with any of those bands. He loved the piano. And _damn_ he was good. Give him a chord progression, simple or complex, and he can make it do twists and turns, sending it to off to uncharted stratospheres without even trying.

Wilson derives a good deal of pleasure watching House play. Music weaves a peculiar spell over his friend, easing his tension, his pain, smoothing those lines the years have so deeply and thoroughly etched into his brow. Music transports him, bringing him a unique emotional release like nothing else can, not love or lust, an intriguing diagnostic conundrum or even a Vicodin high.

But tonight there will be no music, at least not the Battle of the Jazz Bands kind. Wilson mulls this over after parking his Volvo in the lot across the street. "Maybe there should be music. Real music." Perhaps tonight they should surround themselves with the sensual whine of a saxophone, brushes drifting across hi-hats, the deep rumble of bass that makes drinks shiver and chair legs shudder. Wilson sighs as he makes tracks for the bar. Maybe they _should_ have gone to The Bistro. It is Tuesday, after all. Sitting in with a band may have been the best thing for House, offering him some brief respite from those demons plaguing him.

Well, too late now.

Wilson peers through the beveled glass doors, scoping out the booth where he and House usually sit. Generally, House is there before him, scanning the sports page or checking out whatever game is on the TV over the bar. Tonight, though, their booth is occupied by a burly guy wearing a muscle shirt and his brassy blonde girlfriend who, from the looks of it, is well into her second Margarita.

Wilson's gut clenches. He takes the intrusion of the galoot and his gal as a personal affront, which, he realizes a moment later, is woefully irrational of him.

To combat this irrationality he pushes open the door, saunters inside, not giving the couple at _his..._no..._their_ table another thought.

O'Reilly's is a roomy, relaxing place, with tables and booths, wood paneled walls, sepia toned photos of eighteenth century Princeton lining the walls and an expansive bar in the center of the action. The barstool cushions are made of soft red leather; lamplight and candlelight mingle and flicker, reflecting in the bottles of spirits standing proudly behind the busy bartender. TV screens are everywhere, offering a lively array of sporting events: from bowling to volleyball, football to cricket. On occasion House watches equestrian events on ESPN, commenting glibly on the women's derrieres as they bounce up and down in their saddles.

"He's a pig," Wilson thinks, casually surveying the place. "So what else is new." The place is far from jumping but still he can't find House, which troubles him. House may be unreliable in many ways but he always makes it a point to be on time for beer night. Especially when ol' Jimmy is footing the bill. Worry has carted in matches and a pile of wood. Very soon it will be lighting a blaze in Wilson's belly.

"Hey, Doctor Wilson." The bartender calls to him over the mellow din of music and chatter.

"Eddie." Wilson throws him a greeting as his eyes continue to search the room.

"You looking for Dr. House?" He shoves his dish towel into a wet beer mug, digging deep to dry the bottom.

Wilson pushes his hands into his jacket pockets. "Oh, yeah." He nods, flashing a small smile. "I am."

"He's upstairs. Paid for the private room." Eddie tosses him a wink. "And he's not alone."

Wilson shoots a gaze toward the back of the room, at the smooth wooden banister and the sturdy oak steps. "That's a big room upstairs, isn't it? For...office parties, receptions..."

"Oh, he's having a party alright." Eddie wiggles his brows then sets the mug down and begins drying another.

"Thanks, Eddie."

Wilson weaves a path around tables, waiters and customers. In his gut the match is struck, the fire is lit, the wood crackles and burns. Smoke fills the sky, spiraling and swirling as Wilson takes the stairs two at a time and pushes open one of the heavy oak double doors.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How do yer do?"

"No, no, no, no. It's h-OW. Watch my mouf. h-O-Wwww." House presses the woman's cheeks between his thumb and forefinger and purses his lips. "Say it."

"H-O-Wwwwwww dooo ya dooooo?"

"Yes!" House cries, patting both her cheeks and planting a sloppy smooch on her forehead. "Yessss!"

They fall over each other like a pair of overgrown puppies, howling and giggling in their seat at the L-shaped booth in the corner. The room, which is large enough to accommodate at least one hundred people, seems to swallow them up. Four booths line the walls. Tables and chairs have presumably been stored away for another day. A faded red streamer hangs from the center of the ceiling, a left over reminder of some booze infused celebration.

God knows what it cost House to rent this room for the night.

The pair are in their own little world, continuing to cackle in the maniacally goofy way of drunken sots. Wilson wonders about this 'love match', since the woman doesn't seem like House's type. House likes them young but he was never into this heavily masacared, black lipsticked, paste white complected goth look of hers.

Above the couple hang framed photos of turn of the century horse and buggies. The table is littered with evidence of slovenly partying. Greasy paper plates are piled high with chicken wing bones. A half full bottle of Dom Perignon tilts like a once grand tower in its silver ice bucket. An empty pitcher, a bottle of scotch with an inch of liquor remaining, and three shot glasses complete the picture. Wilson's eyes travel from the photo gallery to House and his lady friend, before he notices the other woman seated at the end of the booth. She runs a finger over the rim of her Coca Cola glass, taking the occasional sip.

"Oooh." House's girlfriend twiddles with the buttons of his shirt as she throws Wilson a provocative wink. "Who dat?"

"Who, who?"

They collapse in a tangle of squeals and hysterics again before she manages to sit up, pry House's hands off her hips and smooth her spiky black hair. What she really should be attending to is her blouse, which has somehow been pulled low off her shoulder, revealing the creamy top of a shapely breast.

"Hey, Slim Shady." Cola girl waves her glass at House. "Friend of yours?"

"He don't have no friends 'cept Dom P. and me." Spiky Hair Girl leans across the table and shakes the champagne bottle nestled in the melting ice. "And looks like Dom's seen better days."

"Oooh, hold on a minute. Ju-ust hold on." House squints and flops forward, his upper body crashing onto the table. Wilson winces at the _whack _of that connection and the loud _oomph _that springs from his friend's slack mouth. But it is pretty obvious that House is feeling no pain. He giggles and stretches out his arms causing the shot glasses to clink against one other and fall over. Waggling his fingers at Wilson, he bellows, "Hey-yy, there's my friend. That's good ol' Jimmy Wilson over there."

"He's cute." Spiky Girl coos.

"He's taken." House pouts, using two hands to push himself back into his seat. "Got a little number named Tanya waiting for him." He raises his brows and lets his tongue slide across his lips. "They have _sex."_

"Oh!"

"House..." Wilson folds his arms, throwing an apologetic look to both women but adding an extra dollop of 'sorry' to Coke girl.

"We're all adults here." House hiccups, belches and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "You have sex, right?" he asks Spiky Hair.

"Hell, yeah." She waves at Coke Girl. "Right, Gabby? We did it right before we came here."

"Ho!" House pounds a fist against the table, while punching the air with the other. He smirks, his eyes glimmering and shimmering in dazed excitement.

Letting out a long, cleansing breath, Wilson scrubs a hand through his hair. "Ladies, I need to apologize for my friend."

"Aww, no, you don't," Spiky Girl says, sniffing each shot glass for leftovers. She discovers a drop, twists a finger in the glass and sucks up the remnant. "He's cute too."

"Charming," Wilson hisses.

"Can we go now, Sally?" Gabby, formerly Coke Girl says, tossing House a sneer in the process.

"Aw, don' go." House grasps Sally's shoulders. "We were jus' getting started. The night is young, the booze is," He sneaks a look at the near depleted bottles. "...kinda, sorta still flowing..."

"Oooh, I'm sorry, Trent. But Gabby wants to go...y'know." Sally quirks her head at her partner who is rooting through her purse.

"Trent?" Wilson bleats.

House's eyes go wide. "Sex? Oh, man. They're gonna do it? Again. I wanna watch."

"I'm really, really-" Wilson raises a finger then slowly lowers it again.

Gabby finds her keys and jingles them gingerly at her friend.

"Maybe 'nother time." Sally stands, sways, ruffles House's hair then, with some effort, starts to squeeze by him.

He manages to cop a quick feel of her derriere before she escapes.

"Go jerk off, why don't you." Gabby scowls at House. "That'll keep your hands busy for a minute or two."

Sally is staggering toward the door and Gabby hurries to catch up. She pulls Sally's arm into a proprietary grip and leads her from the room.

"Bye!" House shouts, lifting up his cane to offer a farewell salute.

The double doors drift closed.

"Charming company." Wilson folds his arms and hitches one brow at the door.

"Chah-ming."

He makes his way to the booth, slides in next to House and scoffs, "You told them your name was Trent?"

"Mmm." House attempts to balance a shot glass on top of his hand but is thwarted by a case of the shakes. "Damn!" The glass tumbles to the table, then rolls to a stop by the ice bucket. "Gu-urls who wear black lipstick and suck down booze cream for guys named Trent, or Duke, or Bart."

"So you've taken a survey," Wilson says.

"No. It's just something I learned on the great road of life."

Shaking his head, Wilson emits a sorrowful laugh. "You...are so drunk. Why would you do this to yourself? Why would you invite a lesbian, who obviously didn't like you, and her quasi-lesbian pal, who _did_, to party?"

"Becuz...they weren't boring." House swivels his head back and forth like forlorn eight year old. "And...I just wanted to live a little."

Wilson's eyes go wide. "So what you're saying is you felt you needed to get bombed to feel alive?

House manages to raise his eyes to meet Wilson's. "Sumtin' like that."

"In case you don't recall, the plan for the night was to have a few beers with _me_, some conversation with_ me_ and watch the Mets...with_ me._" Wilson drums his fingers against the table. "Would that have been so terrible?"

"No-oope."

"Now we can't even enjoy the evening."

"Aww...why not?"

"Because when you're drunk you're even more infuriating than when you're sober, if that's possible." Wilson tells him. "And I wanted to talk to my _friend_ tonight. Not the blithering idiot who has taken over his body."

"That's not very nice."

"It's true."

They sit in relative silence, Wilson tapping his fingers together, House mumbling to himself and narrowing his eyes at something across the room. Muffled sounds of laughter and music drift up from downstairs, making it even more apparent what a waste of time this evening is.

"Come on," Wilson says, finally, pushing out of the booth.

"Huh?"

"We'll go back to your place. I'll fix some coffee. It won't do anything for you but it'll make me feel better."

House looks at him with an odd expression, which is somewhere between fright and resignation. "No."

"No...what?"

"No...I don't want to go home right now." House rests his hands on the table and laces his fingers together. Suddenly he doesn't seem so drunk anymore. His gaze moves slowly past Wilson to the other end of the room.

"House, what possible reason could you have for wanting to stay?" Wilson follows his friend's gaze. "What?"

"Do you see it?" His whisper is satin on sandpaper.

"Do I see...what?"

"You know."

"I do?"

House bangs his palms against the table. "You see it, don't you?" Throwing his head back, he lets out a long whistle of relief. "I knew it. I knew he would mess up somewhere along the line."

"Who?"

"You see it, right?"

Wilson shakes his head. "I see a room meant for office parties and wedding receptions. How much did you pay-"

"That." House thrusts his trembling finger at the object in question.

"_That_ is a party streamer the cleaning crew probably forgot to rip down."

Slowly House leans his elbows on the table, rests his chin inside his palms and mumbles, "Facing up to your fears is good for the soul." He closes his eyes.

"House..."

"Facing up to your fears..."

House's eyes flutter open, his frown deepening as his gaze catches the streamer. "...is good for the soul." He slides out of the booth.

Wilson stands, noticing how House's limp is more pronounced than usual, how his shoulders rise and fall in a lopsided rhythm as he hobbles along. It is amazing he can function at all after all the alcohol he has consumed. His breathing is ragged and loud in the quiet, open room. It hitches in his throat as he makes his way...

...to the streamer which flutters lightly, even though there is not a hint of a breeze.

_Strange..._

Wilson follows House, remaining just a few steps behind. That haunted, determined look in House's eyes warns him not to get too close. You're not supposed to wake a sleepwalker. But House isn't sleeping. It seems he is...somewhere else.

The streamer dangles, twirls. As House approaches, his steps slow to a shuffle. His fingers brush the crepe again and again...

"House, why don't we go downstairs..."

Suddenly House rears back, mumbles some babble about...a promise..., then cries out like a man whose pain has taken him by surprise. He flexes his fingers, studying them from every angle as if searching for a wound.

Wilson steps forward, grabs his arm. "What is it?"

House's eyes shimmer with tears and barely restrained panic.. Wilson can't recall the last time he has been witness to this particular phenomenon. "What?"

House licks his lips, shudders and gives a quick shake of his head. "I can't tell you."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

_Yes, old man, the streamer had eyes..._

"I was drunk."

_...a forked tongue..._

"That's your excuse?"

_...and fangs.._

"Yes."

_It bit you._

"You were more than just drunk, House." Wilson sips his black coffee, then sets the mug on the coaster on the coffee table. "You were...gone."

"Drunk." It is the bottom of the ninth. The Mets are losing to Pittsburgh. Badly. House clicks the remote, flipping through channels in disgust. There is nothing worse than watching a good team getting shellacked by an abysmal one.

"How are you feeling?"

House settles on one of the "Dirty Harry" movies (he can't quite recall which one), sets the remote on the arm of the sofa and turns to Wilson. "Fine."

Wilson is scrutinizing him, his eyes filled with compassion, worry and anticipation. If he is waiting for some sort of explanation, it would not be forthcoming.

_I can't tell you._

House knew uttering the words was like opening a bucket of worms. Still, he had no control over blurting them out. His drunkenness had been part of the problem. But it was mainly Mort's damn fault for terrorizing him with that snake streamer thingy.

_A gargantuan mistake._

The effects of his booze up with Spiky Girl or Sally whatever her name was are still with him. Every once in a while the room tilts precariously, his eyes ache like they've been rubbed raw with sand and his temples pound like twin drums in a marching band. Amazingly, nausea hasn't come calling to rob him of the chicken and booze. But, who knows? A midnight conference at the porcelain throne might take care of that piddling transaction.

_If you're still here at midnight..._

It's best not to think about _that. _Best not to dwell on it. Hell, ol' Mort might have taken a fancy to another young stud and forgotten all about him.

_Oooh, why you so crazy..._

"I'm not sure if I believe you," Wilson says.

Between sips from his Poland Springs bottle to combat the dryness in his throat, House replies, "I told you I was fine when you carted me back home," House ticks off each instance on his fingers, "and while you were making your first cup of coffee, again when we clicked on the game, after you had a wash up, when you scoured the cabinets for pretzels and now after your second cup-"

"You're not fine, House." Wilson shakes his head. "You scared the hell out of me at O'Reilly's."

"Believe me, it wasn't my intent. I was very, very drunk." House flexes his hand again but stops abruptly, feeling Wilson's eyes on him. "Stop scrutinizing me," he says, his gaze stubbornly affixed to his hand. "Just...stop."

"I can stay here tonight," Wilson offers cautiously.

"Get rid of him." The voice buzzing in House's ears is regretfully all too familiar.

"The party's over." The thought pummels House like a hard right to the jaw.

_Oh, yeah? Sez who?_

"Sez the goddamn voice circling my gray matter."

_But hey, bro. You cool. You know just how to work it..._

He also knows that to snap his head up would not be at all beneficial. Mort is expecting him to panic; the dude feeds on that sort of reaction. And though House is certain he will be surrendering himself to Mort's whims later in the evening, he refuses to let his consternation show now. With a forced nonchalance he wishes he _truly_ felt, he slowly glides his gaze over to where Mort stands.

"It wouldn't be a problem." Wilson takes another sip of his brew, watching Clint Eastwood load his Magnum.

Mort floats by the kitchen, about an inch off the hardwood floor. A purplish gray haze enshrouds him as he begins to move in quick, restless circles. His tail flicks. Its tapered end pokes out of the shroud like a snake's tongue testing the air. With some reluctance it pulls back and winds itself around Mort's right leg. Mort stops. He turns. Folding his arms, he looks like a bull about to charge as he lowers his eyes at House, eyes that are nothing more than black holes in a face that is a blur of white light and deep shadow. _Anger._ Mort's anger fills House's mouth with its metallic taste, its slippery blood-like texture.

"If you don't get rid of him," Mort growls, "I will."

The words pierce House's gut like the eight inch blade of a carving knife . "Go to Tanya," he says to Wilson, his eyes remaining fixed on Mort's. "She has needs only you can fill."

"You are too kind." Wilson gives a small laugh. "But I think she'll survive the night."

"How can I make this perfectly clear?"

Wilson lifts a brow, tossing House a questioning look.

"Get out."

Wilson shifts on the couch, his expression one of disbelief. "You really mean it, don't you?"

"Get. Out. I'm tired. I want to go to sleep."

_Very good. _

"I don't need you taking an hour to brush and floss, and mousse and gel and blow dry your damn hair in the morning," House continues. "It's annoying."

Folding his arms, Wilson eyes him with a grim look of concern. "Something's off. Something's just not right with you."

House lifts his cane and gives it a threatening shake. "Owwwt."

Mort's laughter echoes in House's head, causing his temples to pound even harder.

"Alright, I'll go." Wilson eases himself off the sofa, his eyes never leaving his friend. "But my cell will be on. Call me if you need me. It doesn't matter what time it is. You understand?"

"Get _rid_ of him!" The room seems to _recoil _before twisting into a sorry mess of purples and grays.

House closes his eyes and massages his temples with two fingers of each hand. "So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight...," he rasps.

First there is silence. He knows Wilson is giving him one final round of scrutiny before turning on his heel. In a few moments House hears footsteps. The front door opens. The front door clicks shut.

Then...

...two hands come from behind, taking the place of his own, making slow, impossibly delicious circles against his temples. House's hands fall helplessly, heavily to his sides. He leans his head against the back of the sofa and can't help but surrender to the pleasure.

_Very good, Doctor. Ve-rrry Good._

He mouth lifts into a grin as the pain, the fear, the weariness draw together to form...an official Mets baseball.

_Here's the wind up. Here's the pitch._

He swings and connects. It's a blast! A good one. It's outta here. He shades his eyes watching with heady elation as all the bad stuff rises higher and higher until it is nothing more than a dot in the sky...

...until it is gone.

"Now...," Mort's voice sprinkles over him fresh and cool, like spring rain on stadium grass. "...we can begin."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Thanks for reading. Comments and concrits are always welcome.

**Diclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks: **to my beta NaiveEve.

**-9-**

_"...we can begin."_

The words turn over and over in his head like a mantra. He has no idea how long his eyes have been closed or if he has been sleeping, half awake, dreaming, or in some kind of Outer Limits/Twilight Zone state.

He _does_ know the pounding in his head has ceased and the effects of his booze up have flown.

_This is not good. Misery should be your company, old man. You should be caressing the porcelain, embracing the pain. Hell, what do you think you'll find when you open those baby blues?_

What indeed? After blasting its way into his gray matter, the thought can't simply be shot back down to its abyss. Now he has to address it.

_Suck it up. Be brave. Open your eyes..._

Fear scrapes its talons down the back of his neck. He inhales deeply ...

...and opens his eyes to find...

...he is home.

The TV drones the eleven o' clock news. The kitchen clock ticks the time down. The dim lamplight throws shadows on his bookcase, his piano, his desk, his phone...

He rubs his thigh, which is being a nice boy tonight and cutting him a bit of pain free slack. He is grateful not to have to dig for his Vicodin.

_This is NOT_ _a good thing._

He doesn't care, doesn't care...

"Feeling better?" Mort sits on the coffee table across from him, drumming his fingers against its edge. Has he been here all along? Does it matter?

"Compared to what?"

Mort snorts a laugh as he rubs the toe of one boot against the pile of the carpet. That shock of blond hair hanging over his brow makes him looks like one of those literature professors girls secretly sigh over in the rear of the lecture hall. "I get the feeling you're not enjoying this as much as I am."

House inclines his head. "Woah, you_ are _good". A slow smirk glides across his lips. "Ever think of taking your act on the road? "

"I'm usually behind the scenes, directing the action." Mort replies with a wink.

"You've got plenty of pull. Get yourself a reality TV show. You'd be a smash. You can call it..." House's eyes go wide as he spreads his fingers out before him. "Deathwatch!"

"How...appropriate." The gold flecks in Mort's eyes dance and whirl with unbridled verve.

"Give death a giggle." House crows, playing the obnoxious emcee. "Find out if _you_ are worthy of those perks on the other side. Watch the auditions, see the amazing prizes, gasp at the _scandals._"

Mort's shoulders shake as he laughs silently and heartily. After a few moments, House's shoulders begin to twitch and move, and he is laughing too. But somewhere inside (so hard to figure where) a switch is thrown, causing that laughter to be infused with a primal, animal-like charge. He rocks up and back as his fingers tug at his hair then rake down his stubble. It doesn't take long before the realization clobbers him.

_You have dived down that rabbit hole to where the crazy people go. How's the air in there, boss?_

He is...hysterical. It is difficult to tell where the laughter leaves off and the wailing begins. He stops, hitches in a breath, before letting out a long, tremulous sigh. The wetness on his cheeks is cool and slick, reminding him he was not supposed to let this happen. He is supposed to be chillin', calm, in control. But those tears continue streaming down his face, heedless of his master plan. His temples pound. He whips his head from side to side. Sobbing, sobbing, sobbing.

A hand, wide and warm, covers his face. Its thumb presses lightly on his right temple, pinky against his left, three fingers splay across his brow. He groans. _Feels good._ The tears stop, the rocking ceases. He recoils from Mort's touch, closes his eyes and wraps his arms around his own trembling form.

"You're so afraid," Mort says softly.

"No shit." Disgusted with his display, he drops his hands to his side, sniffs back residual tears and punches the sofa cushion.

_Have you written that will? Gotten those affairs in order?_

"We spoke about fear, didn't we?"

"Fear is a defense, a way to postpone the inevitable." The sentiment goes round and around, over and over and over in his head.

"There is no need for it." Mort's smile is warm, golden, like his hair, like those little dancing flecks in his eyes. "I promise you, you're going to have it better with me than you ever thought possible."

House clears his throat, taking a moment to regain his composure. "Promises...are nice but they hardly ever stick." He pauses, rubbing his knuckles against his knees. "But that's not the point I want to make."

Mort lifts his hands as if to say, _I'm waiting, enlighten me._

"The point I did want to make is," House leans forward, raising one finger for emphasis. "I'm _not_ going with you."

Chuckling, Mort shakes his head and waggles _his_ finger, as if House were a precocious, undisciplined child. Something is going on in those eyes now: flickers of red and tiny explosions of gold are putting on a show.

House eases back against the cushion. "You stink, you're aggravating. My buddy thinks I'm out of my mind," He scowls. "and that's your fault."

_You always did have a death wish. _

Those eyes. There is no getting away from them. The reds inside the irises are offered up in a hundred different hues, spinning, whirling, melding with the tiny golden bursts. The colors draw him in. He feels his jaw going slack, his head growing heavy on his shoulders. Every few minutes he snaps out of it, realizing he has lost time-two minutes here, five minutes there-before being sucked back in.

The next time House breaks the surface, he mutters, "Not fair."

"Ah, but what is?"

"Damn you." House scrubs his face with his palms. "Leave me alone."

_No panic. No more fear. Keep it under control._

"Your stubborn streak used to interest me," Mort says, those green eyes locked on House's. "But it's gradually becoming tiresome."

"My, how quickly they turn." House quips. "See? I'm boring. Good thing you found out before we went to your place." He would like to avert his gaze from Mort's but it seems pretty comfortable where it is."Boy, would you have been pissed to get _all_ the way there and then find out..."

"We're going to do things a bit differently than I'd originally planned." Mort stands and rubs his hands together.

"Are we now?"

"I thought this would be easy." His tail flicks as he drifts over to House's desk. He stops, stares at the disarray and grins, seemingly delighted by it, _oohing_ and _aahing_ as he runs his fingers over everything. The newspapers, two empty Vicodin bottles, the PC, its keyboard and monitor, the telephone, the medical journals, pencils, pens and a rubber Gumby and Pokey entwined in a carnal, bendy embrace seem to really make his day. "Things." He sighs, taking it all in. "I hardly ever get the chance to deal with things. It's all so airy and abstract where we are." Turning his head, he winks. "Oops, don't want to give away too much."

"I'm not going so it doesn't matter."

"Here's what we're going to do." Mort beams. "Rather, what _you _are going to do."

Something black, shiny and unctuous creeps from under Mort's smarm and charm, slithering easily into House's gut. Something's coming. He is certain. Something pretty damn troublesome (with a capital 'T') is on its way.

_And, you ain't finagling your way out of this one with your humor and mad charm. This dude's wise to your crap._

"You need to slow down," Mort says. "You'd be amazed at what you can experience if you let yourself relax."

"I kind of like things they way they are."

"Do you really?"

"I do," House responds flatly.

"Tell me you're not the tiniest bit curious." Mort floats to the bookcase. "That you don't at least want to see what I have in store."

"I don't."

"As you say, everybody lies. Although I'm not without compassion, I do want this to happen and it will." He holds out his hand and beckons. "Come here."

"Naw, I don't think so." House can't recall standing or moving himself along. But here he is on the other side of the room, sans cane, without the faintest hint of pain in his thigh...

_...and without a damn song in your heart. You don't stand a chance, old man._

"As you can see," Mort takes him by the arm. "you no longer have a choice in the matter. That stepladder in the kitchen, bring it here."

There have been times, pretty darn grim times, when House has been moved to haul that compact three stair stepladder over to this bookcase.

_Oh, we are riding into some mighty dangerous territory, Slim._

He had purposely made it nearly impossible for himself, even with the aid of the ladder, to reach the top of that bookcase. Making this climb was never done for fun or 'just because'. It was done because he had no other recourse. _Like now._

"Why?" he asks, having no intention of doing as he is told. Yet the stepladder is already in his hands and he is carrying it over, setting it in just the right spot...

"You know why."

Escape sounds like an excellent plan. He considers using his mobility, temporary though it may be, to race to the door, wrench it open and disappear into the chilly spring night.

_It's a lovely dream. But do I really have to remind you about the elevator and the stairs? Do we need to add the doorway to that list of futile exit plans?_

Nope.

"Up you go."

He steps onto the ladder, one, two, three, and straightens himself to his full height. Fear retracts its talons and now runs its lithe fingers over the nape of his neck. He shuts his eyes, pressing the side of his face against his books. The rich smells of leather bindings and ink are nice.

"Doctor?"

"Yep."

"Please continue."

Even with the help of the ladder he is unable to see over the top of the bookcase. But he doesn't need to. He knows what he is after; he has, after all, done this before. He reaches, stre-e-e-tching up with one hand, scrabbling through piles of books and dust, searching, searching blindly before finally hitting paydirt in the form of...

...the metal box. His fingers roam over its sharp edges, its clasp, its coolness and wishes he could leave it where it is.

"Thank you, Doctor." Mort's voice travels from one side of his head to the other. "Bring it down."

One, two, three steps, and he is off the ladder, holding the olive green box out to the dude like an offering.

"I don't want it." Mort traces a finger along its edges, its corners, the smoothness of its sides. "It's yours."

His gaze flits from the walls to the ceiling. House has no desire to look at that box, doesn't want to think about what it holds. "I keep it up there for a reason."

"Gives you a certain peace of mind," Mort's smile is small and soft. "knowing all it takes is a bit of effort and it's in your hands."

_'It's an escape hatch', is what you told yourself when you brought it home. A backup plan for pain. _

It is impossible not to follow the languid grace of Mort's finger against the metal. He is like an artist mapping out a painting, a masterpiece-swirls of color, dabs of geometric detail dapple the surface.

_Psychedelic, man._

House sways and Mort grabs his arm. The feeling is heady, electric. House's eyes move with the colors as they dance and writhe along the metal.

"Where do you want to do this?"

Prepped. He's being prepped: sedated before anesthetized.

"Don' wanna."

"Again...where do you want to do this?"

House licks his lips, shakes his head. "Don' care..."

"Bed? Propped up by pillows? Sound good?"

"Mmm. Guess so..."

Box in hand, he plods toward the bedroom. Mort's arm is around his waist, keeping him from wandering away or bouncing off the furniture like an errant pinball.

His simple queen sized bed seems massive and not like a bed at all. It is more like...a cloud. Yeah. All fluffy, pink and floating about an inch above the bed frame.

_Shit. Snap out of it._

The comforter is thrown back. Three pillows are propped up against the headboard. House places one hand experimentally on the mattress, then cautiously presses down. The mattress dips beneath his touch, bobbing back in place as he pulls his hand away. It _is_ afloat, like some lame prop from a Las Vegas magic show. _Only this isn't one of David Copperfield's amazing feats of prestidigitation, _he thinks, meeting Mort's eyes. _This is real_.

"Please." Mort extends his hand toward the bed.

House sets the box on top of the comforter, then, with the dude's help, manages to climb onto the floating cloud/mattress thing. His head swivels from side to side, fists clenching as his body sinks into the extraordinary softness. It sure doesn't feel like the semi firm mattress he is used to. There are no springs, there is no _substance._ It is just...air...water vapor...clouds.

"Lean back. Tha-at's right, Doctor."

He hears the click and hum of the refrigerator defrosting in the kitchen. The phone _brrrrs_ and the answering machine snags the call.

_You've reached this number in error..._

"That's me." House giggles as the words leave his mind.

"I know." Mort raises his brows and giggles along. His fingernail makes a _tat-tat-tat_ sound against the box. "Let's get started."

_House. _The voice over the machine pokes a hole in the fog.

House lifts the box onto his lap. "Tha's Wil-son."

"You don't want to talk with him," Mort says, rubbing the back of House's neck. "You're busy."

_Pick up._

"Mmm." House's eyes roll back in his head. Mort's ministrations are soothing, making House feel like a sleepy boy at bedtime. But he's got to focus. Things to do. He _is _busy. With some effort, he raises his head, clicks open the clasp and raises the lid of the box.

_House?_

Wilson sounds unhappy, worried, troubled. House considers making the trip into the living room to pick up the phone and tell him to stop being such a damn baby.

_He's so silly._

But the foot of the bed seems too far away, the door to his room might as well be in another galaxy. He is much too comfortably content to move. Snuggling down deeper into the cloud/mattress, House grins and blinks at Mort, who smiles back.

"What have we here, Doctor?" Mort raises his brows and peers into the box.

"Oooh...things."

"Well, I like things."

House nods. "I know."

The phone at the other end of the answering machine clicks off.

"He hung up." That unctuous black thing wiggles in his gut, reminding him that all is not well in Gregland.

I'm not going anywhere, going anywhere, going any-

_Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, brother and smile, smile..._

Mort strokes the back of House's head, tamping down that growing unease. "You've collected some lovely things. Won't you show me?"

Brow furrowing, House roots through the contents of the box: cotton swabs, a tourniquet, two syringes, two vials of morphine...

"Very useful things."

"I know."

They stare at one another for what seems like a long time. But as he reclines on this cloud that used to be a bed, House realizes that time doesn't seem to matter anymore.

"You know what to do." Mort's whisper floats languidly through his mind.

The morphine is so very tempting. House fingers the little vial, enjoying the way the lamplight makes the glass and liquid shine. He runs a finger over the sterile smoothness of the syringes.

"It's time...Greg."

House presses his lips together, slides the tourniquet over his arm and pushes it up to his bicep. He makes a fist, smiles at how prominently that vein in his arm displays itself, as if it too is anxious for all the sweetness to come.

Mort clasps the vial between two fingers, holding it steady as House, his stomach fluttering, his heart pounding out an anticipatory mambo beat, fills the syringe. The feeling. Ah, the feeling. That initial push when the morphine kicks in will be more powerful, more pleasurable than the most intense orgasm or the thrum of a Harley cycle as it propels him down the road. How easy would it be to become addicted to such a rush?

_Easy..._

_Now _he presses the needle against the vein, his mouth falling open as the point breaks the skin. Mort's hand cover his own and together they push the depressor down, down, down. Refill the syringe. No, not all the way. Just enough. Enough. Ahh, yes. Such a gift. Enough is too much. Yes? No? He is too far gone to know.

And somewhere in a galaxy far, far away, a phone rings as House's world breaks apart and drifts around him like a million clusters of stars.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His cell is still in his hand. The realization hits Wilson at the same time his stomach gurgles. He hasn't eaten anything tonight except the bagful of pretzels at House's place.

House.

It is after midnight. He rests his free hand on the sill. Clad in a t-shirt and sweats, he stands by the open window in Tanya's living room. Not much of a wind tonight but still he hears the faint sound of it whining and whistling, coming...

_...from a galaxy far, far away._

He cocks his head. The thought doesn't strike him quite as odd as it should.

House.

He should just go to bed. Really, he should just join Tanya, nuzzle up to her warmth, enjoy some lovemaking. Forget House for now. It's late. House had been drunk, probably fell into a heavy sleep, didn't hear the phone.

_But House always hears the phone. And after your third attempt, his anger should have been piqued enough where he should have picked up the receiver and slammed it down in your ear._

That would have been something, enough to assuage his concern, his worry, hold them off at least until morning.

"Hey."

Tanya leans against the bedroom door, her heavy lidded eyes giving her a look of sleepy arousal. "You said you'd be right in. That was a half hour ago."

Wilson sighs, continuing to stare at the midnight stars. "I know. I'm sorry."

"If you're so worried, try him again."

"He's not picking up."

She approaches, joining him at the window. "I'm glad you're here."

He lays his arm across her shoulders. "Me too."

"But you're not_ really _here tonight, are you, James?"

"No," he tells her sadly. "I guess I'm not."

She has the look of a woman who truly wants to care, wants to understand but fails on both counts. Wilson closes his eyes as her lips touch his.

"Go to him, James," Tanya says, moving out of his embrace. "But after he snaps your head off for waking him, go back to your hotel. " Turning, she heads toward the bedroom. "I need to get some sleep."

The light scent of her perfume remains, tempting Wilson to follow. He imagines them spending the remainder of the early morning making slow, sleepy love, then drifting off, warm and satisfied.

Outside, the wind picks up again, It sounds heartbreaking, lonely, like a futile cry of the hopelessly lost.

The stars shimmer.

Wilson puts on his jeans, finds his jacket and keys and heads out the door.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's been reading, commenting and sticking with the story. I appreciate it.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Thanks: **To NaiveEve for her excellent work as my beta.

**-10-**

It's all good.

No. 'All good' doesn't quite cut it. _All fuckin' amazing? _Oh, yeah. Now we're gettin' jiggy wit' it.

_Oops. _He wonders if epithets such as the demon 'fuckin' are frowned upon here.

_It no matter, señor. Say it loud, you may be dead but you're proud. It's all fuckin' amazingly good._

One thing obviously hasn't changed. He still doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks.

He dimly recalls fighting the good fight, battling it out with old Mort only to lose in the end. When was that? He can't quite figure it out and wonders how badly his powers of deduction have been impaired. The more he tries, the further away the memory slips. But keeping track of the ticking clock is overrated anyhow, so incredibly...unimportant.

One interesting discovery he's made is that time, although meaningless here, is mercurial. Stepping into tomorrow is as easy as making the trek back forty years. How does he know? Mort told him...he thinks. But he couldn't swear to it. His mind is fried. He is cold stone certain about things one minute and not so sure the next. But it's okay because-

_-every damn thing is way cool._

Yeah. Oookay.

White seems to be the non color of the year: the air, these tower walls, the wrap around robe things everyone wears are all white, all the time. He would prefer to be wearing his jeans but was told that the robes separate the wheat from the chaff and that he is a member of the wheat contingent.

_Looney Toons_.

Roman gladiator fashion statements notwithstanding, he does have those perks to consider. The feeling of being 'here' is...like tasting ice cream for the first time. It's like the first time Stacy's nipple hardened beneath his thumb, or his first dizzying, intoxicating toke on a hash pipe. Everything is..._wow_, he thinks with a secret smile. Even that weird white wind that zips along, flowing through tower windows and over the tops of tents is pretty amazing. It whirled around him twice before flying _through_ him and if there was ever a pleasure more exquisite he had yet to experience it.

The heaviness he woke to daily, the pain he lived with every single _fuckin'_ day for so many years, had been put to rest...

_...along with you._

"But I'm not dead," he says without conviction, throwing Mort a questioning look. His new best bud responds with a simple, somber shrug.

Does it matter?

"What's up with them?" Leaning over a wide white balcony, he frowns at the sea of humanity milling about in a state of controlled chaos.

Mort's lips peel back into a shit eating grin. Dude is looking pretty damn pleased with himself as he waves a finger at the activity below. "The rabble, new arrivals," he says. "Most of them will be going back."

The rabble wear whatever clothes they arrived in: jeans, khakis, work shirts, skirts, skydiving jumpsuits (an entire team must have taken that one last collective tumble from the skies), blouses, sneakers, sensible shoes, all of which are faded, bleached to as near white as they could get. White robed men and women float among them. Their job is apparently to herd the rabble into neat rows and lead them into one of the many tents set up on the white lawn of the tower.

"They go back?"

"They're dim bulbs, totally clueless. It is mind boggling how some of them made it as far as they did in life." He shakes his head, but that grin remains. "They gotta do the dance again." He shimmies in place, like the leader of a conga line. "learn a little something next time around." With a flick of his tail, he whips around. "Come along. This is boring."

Nothing here is boring. Not yet, anyway.

Mort leads him through a set of double doors and into the tower. It's all smoke and fog and transparent pillars in here. Slants of light seem to beam in from nowhere...yet everywhere. Everything seems like...nothing. The walls are swirling, smoky partitions. He drifts through them, witnessing a little show each time he does: people in in kitchens, in boardrooms, in classrooms, in bed, chattering to one another as if they have all the time in the world. Their scents are strong: food, gardens, sex, sweat...life.

"They're alive."

"Oh, yes. Still among the living but," Mort hitches a brow. "you just never know when tragedy might come along to mess with their pleasant afternoons."

House would like to walk through more walls but Mort is already pulling him down a corridor and into an oval room with a high domed ceiling. Against the far wall, three women and four men, clad in the requisite white, are seated beside one another. Two are twentysomething, the rest are older, halfway between August and November on the age ladder. They are all classic beauties: a gaggle of Montgomery Clifts and Elizabeth Taylors. Lounging barefoot on Eames chairs, each moves a languid hand through the air. They are not unlike a mime troupe flipping through engrossing, make believe tomes. As Mort and House draw near, they drop their hands and lean forward as one.

"This is Greg," Mort announces. Off their surprised looks he adds, "He is with me."

Their mouths fall open in unison. Seven pair of eyes lock on House and bore right through him.

_Oooh, they don't like you much, do they?_

"Stop it!" Mort's words make the room shudder. Tufts of ceiling drift slowly down like new snow. "I told you he was the one. You didn't believe me?"

One of the younger women, the one with the cherubic smile and Liz Taylor's violet eyes, drifts toward him. House rears back as she moves one hand along his jaw, across his brow, down, down along his chest, without actually making contact. "I can see why you wanted him for so long." The gold flecks in her eyes swim like dolphins, diving deep into the indigo, before rising up in slo-mo. "Such an old soul."

"Go back to the hunt, Sera," Mort grumbles. "Did I ask for your approval?"

She throws House a look that could only be considered provocative, then drifts back to her seat.

He wonders if they have sex here.

"Sometimes this group gets a bit brazen," Mort says as he leads House toward another set of double doors.

House glances over his shoulder at the seven beauties. They have returned to their pretend page turning, all except that woman. She is smiling at him, the gold in her eyes sparkles even from a distance.

"But," Mort sighs, "they are mine, part of me, and I am forced to put up with their antics."

"They're busy."

"They are hunting for souls who are more likely to bypass that horrid rabble stage. The special ones, the ones who have...potential. It is always nice to be able to set these things up beforehand. That way we can more easily place them." Mort smiles. "But this is not your concern."

"Sooo, what is my concern?"

"To just be you. To comment on the new arrivals. Offer opinions. To regale me with your wit and wisdom."

"Be the court jester," House adds.

Mort shrugs, "If you know any good jokes I'm all ears. I do like them somewhat perverse." He winks. "But you're more than a diversionary funny man to me. Much more."

"I'm friggin' flattered."

"Good. You should be. You could be working in one of those tents, which is boring, believe me. You would hate it."

"But they're all dead," House says.

"Yes," Mort replies, "I know."

The double doors open of their own accord and Mort ushers House into another oval space. The room is vacant except for what floats adjacent to the far wall. House folds his arms, gives the thing a once over. "What is this monstrosity?"

"_That_," Mort replies, "is your new toy." He takes House's arm and leads him directly in front of what looks like a vast rectangular portal. From the side it seemed almost invisible. But from where House stands now it seems to go back, back, back into an infinity of swirling white.

"It's a toy? House is intrigued.

"You could say that."

"A game?"

Mort chuckles. "If you like."

"Where's the controller?" House peers behind and beneath it.

"You're so funny. Like a little kid." Leaning against the wall, Mort smirks.

His search unsuccessful, House asks, "Hard drive?"

"Uh uh."

House rubs his chin. "Joystick? Remote?"

"You'll have to stop thinking like a mortal."

There is no fear here. But something doesn't feel right. "I'm not...dead."

"Raise your hand, Greg."

House lifts his hand like a reticent grade school student.

"Wave it."

His hand makes a slow arc across the portal. And then...that swirling white emerges, towering over him like a tidal wave before crashing down and spinning wildly, surrounding him, sucking him into...

_...faces, smiling, frowning, furious, intent, ecstatic, car wrecks, screeching, screaming, crying, laughing, murders, copulation, surprise, years, weeks, seconds, minutes, eons, tangling, weaving, the past, the present, the future, everything shatters, everything is great..._

_Everything is._

Way cool

"Do you like your toy?"

Stunned, House takes two stumbling steps forward, almost falling into the thing before catching himself and stumbling back.

"I take that as a yes?"

His fingers twitch. He wants to raise his hand again, spin like a raging tornado one more time but decides against it, letting his arm dangle at his side.

"Aw, you're no fun."

House gawps at his new diversion. "Small doses...might be best."

"Oh, go for it. It ain't gonna _kill_ you." Mort chucks him on the shoulder.

_Of course not. You're already there._

"After all, this is one of the perks I promised you. I thought you might enjoy it."

House takes a step forward, then stops, bites his lip and gives Mort a look.

"Lovely day for a constitutional." Mort grins.

A solid shove sends House reeling headlong into the portal's billowy, restless void.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Surveillance is not Wilson's idea of a hot time. He has no idea why he is sitting in his car across the street from House's apartment, munching on a Taco Bell cheesy bean burrito ("_We're open late!"), _sipping Diet Coke through a straw.Waiting. Waiting for what, he has no idea.

The key to House's apartment dangles on his ring next to the Volvo's. Certainly he could rush right in, turn the key in the lock and solve the mystery. But the light is on. From the looks of it, all the lights in the place are on. The glow through the windows in the front (the living room) and side (bedroom) gives the place a warm, cozy look. But that glow is of no comfort to Wilson. House is not one to leave lights on when he doesn't need them. He is thrifty that way, preferring to sit in the dark or settle by a reading lamp than waste bulb life and electric power.

Wilson polishes off the burrito he hardly tasted, sucks up the dregs of his soda, which did nothing to quench his thirst. He wipes his hands and scrubs his chin with the paper napkins which were stuffed into his bag by that tired looking cashier at the drive-thru window.

Why does everyone seem so damn tired these days? Surely not everyone pulls all-nighters.

After pushing the empty cup and crumpled wrapping into the bag, Wilson finally admits to himself why he is parked across from House's place in the middle of the night.

He is afraid. Of what, he's not sure.

He admonishes himself for not being in the apartment right now, checking to make sure that House is still breathing. He shouldn't be sitting here moping and giving himself every excuse to remain behind the wheel of the Volvo as the morning hours tick away. He belches, then cringes as the vile cheesy bean aftertaste burns his throat.

Staring at the glow of lamplight through those windows, he hopes for a shadow to pass the shade, hopes for some sign of life.

The light burns softly, gently, like a benign hand holding back the night.

_Move your ass! _

Wilson pushes the driver's side door open, crumpling the Taco Bell bag in his fist as he races across the street.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Bees._

The hum is everywhere: in his head, ricocheting off the walls, bouncing off the floors, rising to where the ceiling might be.

_But there is no ceiling, old man. You can see that, can't you? Or are you still floating around in that dimwitted haze?_

It sure _sounds_ like bees in here, thousands of them, _millions. _

How long has he been walking through this blankness? Time... He shakes his head as if to clear it.

...is a bitch.

_You'll have to stop thinking like a mortal..._

Those words would normally have given him a shiver. But fear is a foreign concept now, like a language that once tripped off his tongue with ease but suddenly makes no sense. What _is_ disconcerting is the slithery liquid motion of the unctuous thing Mort passed along to him so long ago.

_Not...that long ago._

Yeah, sure. It was another time, another place, another planet...

_...in a galaxy far, far away._

The thing wavers and undulates in his gut. Was it left there by mistake or as some sort of warning? Maybe it is Mort's inimitable way of saying he is watching everything House does, knows _everything _that is churning around in his guest's befuddled head?

If House had to guess, he would surmise it was a strong warning. Mort didn't make mistakes.

The hum intensifies as the walls become infused with candy color, pulling, stretching like taffy.

_Stay put. Watch and learn._

The deep reds, bright greens, phantasmagorical purples, yellows and pinks swim, writhe and transform into squares, pushing out from the walls and floor like miniature solar panels. They are neat little things, yay big, about an inch on each side. He knows this because he plucks one from the wall and measures it between his thumb and forefinger. But…

_Uh oh._

...that wasn't such a brilliant idea. There is an odd vibration inside it, an electric pull. He jerks his fingers away, realizing as he does so that it is too damn late.

_Didn't Mommy ever tell you to look but don't touch, old man?_

In a matter of moments the little panels surround him, their humming escalates to a fever pitch, squealing, chirruping higher and higher as they...

...envelope him, multiplying tenfold, one hundred fold, _clickety, clickety, clack, _until the void is teeming with them. If this is their greeting, House would have preferred being given the cold shoulder.

_Oooh, look at the panels. Yes, look deeper. _

They are rife with little life scenes, not just from present day but, from yesterday, two years from now, a sunny afternoon, three centuries ago. They continue to chatter and hum and poke him, prod him from above, below, side to side, each one vying for his attention.

_You're lost little boy..._

Now their smells assault him: barbecue, perfume, floral gardens, city dumps, sweat, halitosis, a million other scents all cooking together to form the stench of life...and death.

_Eau de Mort..._

Yes, this is interesting. Quite a toy. But he would really like this assault to just... stop.

_No way, Cholly._

These squares are as insistent as the Mort man. House senses if he doesn't choose one of these beauties to play with they're going to keep at him until he winds up in a heap. Then they'll pull him in a hundred million directions until he is nothing more than wheaty grains of Greg divided equally among them.

The Black Unctuous Thing that has taken residence inside him creeps, slithers, then winds around itself, getting all comfy as it settles deep within his belly. Trying his best to ignore it, he reaches out blindly, groping, grasping, grabbing...

...a random square and clasps it tightly. It writhes, pummels and pounds the inside of his fist, then bursts free, _snagging_ him, sweeping him into a whirlwind of such splendid intensity, he loses himself. From somewhere outside the commotion he watches as he rolls, rocks and tumbles through a long vessel of light and color...

_You're lost..._

...until he joins the dance again and is deposited with an unceremonious _thump_ in the rear of what looks like an elementary school classroom. The room smells of chalk dust, floor wax and white paste. Hunched over a desk/chair combo, he clasps a pencil stub between two fingers. A mathematics primer is by his right hand. His knees push against the underside of the desk and the back of the hard wooden chair cuts into the small of his back. Evidently, the desk/chair combo was not devised for fortysomething, six feet two inch physicians. Wincing, he shifts, causing his seat to creak and groan, causing…

…the teacher to look up from her desk. She is a slim woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a black dress and a cameo broach around her neck. Her graying honey colored hair is done up in a severe bun.

_So fashionable in the olden days._

She acknowledges him with a nod, presses a slim finger to her lips, then goes back to her reading.

The kids have their heads down, working hard on their numbers. House doodles a stick figure devil on a page in his primer before diving in, solving the first ten problems in two minutes. Bored, he taps his foot, and turns to the boy and girl seated to his right. The boy kicks the girl's ankle, reaches behind her to lightly tug a brown pigtail, while peering at her paper. The girl rolls her eyes before throwing the boy a look of tolerant disdain. Slowly now, her gaze shifts slyly to the teacher, then back to her work. Her teeth touch her lower lip as she inches her primer closer to the boy so he can more easily cheat.

_Wilson._

House folds his hands on his desk and gleefully observes. The way she holds her pencil, rubs her neck and moves her head from side to side as she concentrates on her work confirms his suspicions. Somehow he knows (for certain and for sure) that this pigtailed, patent leathered, lacy collared twelve year old girl possesses the soul of the future Jimmy Wilson

It is funny, too funny. "Wait'll I tell him," House thinks.

_And that would be, when? The twelfth of never, perhaps?_

And the boy...is him. His old soul is tucked away inside the kid with the bad attitude and that devilish gleam in his eye.

_You haven't changed a bit, old man._

How many lives had that tired old soul passed through? He could check into it, have a little tete a tete with those lively little panels, relive old times.

_Nooo thanks._

"Yo, asswipe," House pokes the pencil stub at the kid's cowlick. "Got a problem? Dog eat your notes? "

"Doctor House." The teacher's voice booms through the classroom, causing every head to do a one eighty. "You are a guest in this room, are you not?"

"Yeah, but-" He shoots a look at the boy, who snorts out a giggle.

Teacher _thwaps_ her desk with her pointer, making him flinch. "You are old enough to know better."

"He was cheating."

"We do not tattle." Teacher's eyes glow green and _surprise! _They come equipped with those little golden flecks that spin and twirl and dance.

House sighs. Mort, like Elvis, is everywhere.

This young whippersnapper, the past owner of House's soul, hisses and bares his teeth, his eyes growing wide and then wider. They are huge now, violet with gold flecks spinning round...and around...and around...

_Uh oh._

Wrenched out of the classroom by the scruff of his neck, House is hurled away, through the vessel, tumbling through the colors and the lights and _whomp! _He is on his butt. The white floor undulates beneath his ass, his legs and the flat of his palms. Those hundred million little squares are all back in place on the wall, looking neat and nice as ducks in a row.

_Oh, and check this out_.

Those violet eyes have followed him here. They sparkle and twinkle with amusement as they drift over his paralyzed, powerless form.

_Nice day for a constitutional._

"Well, now," The laughing voice swirls from the general direction of those eyes. Liz Taylor's porcelain features wrap themselves around the indigo. A cherubic smile and petite white robed frame complete the picture. "are you lost, little boy?"

He is happy to see the woman from the big white room. She is interesting, so beautiful. He recalls the slow caress of those hands, although they never actually touched him, did they?

"Yeah," House says as his shoulders sag with relief. "I guess I am."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson presses a trembling hand against the heavy wooden door. For the second time in the course of a minute the fingers of his other hand attempt to twist House's key in the lock. Again the lock resists.

_Shit. _He pounds a tremulous fist against the door. _SHIT!_

"House." _Bam! Bam! Bam! "_HOUSE!"

He brings his sore fist to his chest along with the keys that jingle and tinkle merrily, mocking his distress. Pressing his forehead against the solid, steadfast wood, he thinks, thinks, thinks, then remembers the emergency key House keeps in the most unlikely place-a place no burglar, murderer or wandering junkie would ever_ dream _of looking_-_right there above the door. He reaches up, snags it, pushes into the lock.

Nothing.

_Nothing. _

BAM! BAM! BAM!

_Stop it. Just...stop. It's the middle of the night. You're going to wake the whole damn neighborhood..._

Think, think, think. He could call the police saying he has reason to believe his friend has been the victim of foul play.

But police are nosy and House has been known to be careless about where he stores his more...questionable possessions. Who knows what he has stashed in there? And if House is alive but in a bad way, he certainly doesn't need the police clomping in to bare witness to his distress. He's had enough run-ins with the cops to last three lifetimes.

He tries the key once more, gives it a good twist, which gets him an aching forefinger to go along with the throbbing hand but nothing else.

There is another route he can take. He didn't want to involve anyone else but, in this case, he doesn't have a whole lot more options open to him. Wilson pulls his cell out of his trouser pocket and scans through his contact list. He is anal about keeping these numbers up to date, so the absence of the one he is after causes him to emit a noise of futility, a pathetic half sob, half sigh.

He wonders, not for the first time today, what the hell is going on.

He _could _call Cuddy and would if he was forced to. But he would rather not involve her. If he did, he would have to explain everything. And he didn't want to do that either.

He pounds the buttons on his cell, presses the phone to his ear. Nurse Myrna picks up. Ah! A break in the clouds. He had forgotten Myrna was at the reception desk this morning. Wilson is pleased. If he has to ask someone for this kind of favor, he's glad it is her.

"This is Dr. Wilson."

"Hello, Doctor. What can I do for you?"

There is a smile in her voice, which is a positive sign.

"I need a phone number."

"Oh, what department?"

"It's...a home phone number. One of the staff."

A slight pause, then, "Doctor, I'm sorry, but you know I can't-"

"Myrna, it's an emergency."

He senses her concern. It was present and accounted for when she left House's office yesterday morning and it's with her now. He is sure of it, he can feel it...

"What is the problem, Doctor?"

Wilson makes a fist, presses it against the door and says slowly and succinctly, "Myrna, I really need a number."

There is a long pensive silence before she asks, "Who?"

"Dr. Foreman."

The sound of Myrna's fingers clicking away on the computer keys is like The William Tell Overture, Fidelio, Swan Lake and Superfly all rolled into one glorious symphony. Wilson lets out a long sigh of relief. In another moment he has what he needs.

He punches the number into his cell, holds his breath as the phone brrrs once, twice...

"Please," he whispers, closing his eyes.

Foreman picks up on the third ring, mumbling incoherently at first, but as Wilson speaks, the urgency of the situation seems to get Foreman's brain cells percolating, spurring him into action.

"I'll be right over," he says.

"Thank you," Wilson breathes, falling to his knees, his fist still pressed against the door.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for sticking with the story and leaving comments. Much appreciated!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. The excerpt from "I Am The Walrus" was written by John Lennon/Paul McCartney and was used here for a bit of spooky effect.

**Thanks: **to NaiveEve for being (as always) a wonderful and insightful beta.

**-11-**

_How could you let her do this to you?_

Yeah, how could he? He remembers the way she drew him in, how her eyes grew huge and round until they were not like eyes at all but two vast indigo seas. Those waters merged, shimmering aquamarine and gold, enveloping him, caressing him in their tropical warmth as they carried him off.

It was undeniably pleasant. He found it easy to set his mind on autopilot and just...enjoy the feeling of floating off to who knew where. It was only when the Liz Taylor girl decided to go the extra mile and become part of him that the experience became a teensy bit

_(weird, disconcerting, harrowing, horrible)_

terrifying.

Now he _is_ the light...the...air...the entire friggin' universe-a part of everything there was, is or will be. Ultimate, infinite...

_Woah. Beautiful, just beautiful. Applause, applause. Not a dry eye in the house._

"You like?"

...too much, too much. He is glad when it is over, happy to be careening, swirling, tumbling back to white robes and fragrant, violet eyed...

_Wait!_

Ye-ah. It would be nice to stay this way, wrapped in her embrace, feeling the ripple, flow and ebb of her.

_You're lost..._

No!

Somehow he manages to escape, to stumble backward, taking step after stuttering step until he feels the wall at his back. Those maniacal panels of time and space are restless, chattering and clattering, so glad to see him. They rub against his shoulder blades, preparing for another episode of _Let's Take Greg On A Trip._

"No, I don't like!" He jabs an elbow at those panels, sending them chittering and screeching back where they belong.

"No?"

She floats toward him, closer and closer until he can smell that fragrance again- flora, exotic, intoxicating, sweet but never cloying. He looks into those indigo eyes and finds himself sinking deep, like before, those waves cresting in anticipation of his surrender. Somehow he manages to catch himself before he drowns.

"Methinks thou doth protesteth a bit too much."

"I don't want to go there again." The words seem to have come from outside of him, as if this simple act of rebellion should be wa-ay beyond his current capabilities. He feels the tug. She is pulling him apart as she is reeling him in. The feeling is disconcerting but not unpleasant. Surrendering your will, losing yourself is always a kick, a special kind of freedom.

"He wants you to." Her form is shifting, changing once more into that white filmy fluttering thing.

_The wind._

"He wants you to be happy."

"No, he doesn't. He wants to keep me here so I can amuse him when he's bored." He lifts his chin, twists his head to avoid those eyes. "But you knew that."

"_I am he..."_

It is happening again.

_"...as you are he..."_

She wafts cool against his face.

_"...as you are me..." _

Plays with his hair.

_."..as we are all together." _

Caresses his lips.

"You remember my name?" The breeze coos in his ear.

"No."

She flows inside him, cool, golden and pure, inches at a time, just enough to send him soaring into the upper atmosphere. He knows the flight plan from his last excursion. The moon would be next before a trip around the solar system, then a tour of the entire friggin' galaxy...

_...far, far away._

"Don't do this," he rasps.

"Why?"

"It's too much."

"I give you the ultimate high and it's too much?" She wraps her form around his legs then glides snakelike up his body. "Say my name." The voice is teasing, seductive.

"I...don't remember your name."

"You know, if you stay with me I can teach you to do this. Wouldn't you like us to flow together? It's always more fun together?" The breeze is warm, balmy, as fragrant as an Egyptian garden in summer. He can see it, all sunny and green, rife with Pentas Lanceolatas, exotic star shaped flowers blooming in an explosion of whites, lavenders, purples, reds and pinks. He feels himself sway but the wind flutters around him, holding him up.

"Can you imagine it?"

Unfortunately he could.

_Give her what she wants and you're gone, Casanova._

"Say...my...name."

_"Sera," _he moans, suddenly remembering.

"Good boy. I like that."

He closes his eyes, winces and waits for lift off. But it doesn't come. Instead he hears a weary sigh, sensing Sera's reluctance as she eases away from him.

"He is going to be so disappointed with you."

_Could be a trick, old son. Sure, open your eyes. Take a chance. What could possibly be in store for you this time?_

House takes a chance, blinks his eyes open.

Everything seems copacetic. Sera is by the wall, a safe distance away. Her arms are folded, robe fluttering in the non-existent breeze.

"It's amazing you have any fight left," she says.

"I'm an old pro at fighting back," he tells her with a slow grin.

"Mmm, I can see that." Sera approaches, lifting a hand to trace the outline of House's jaw, his chin. "Do you really want to go back to what you had before?"

The panels on the walls _tickety click_, mumble and murmur, waiting for his response. "I was free to do what I wanted there."

"You were in pain."

"Sucks, doesn't it?" Now he moves in a slow circle around her.

Rotating in place, she follows his movements. "I wouldn't know about being in pain."

"I meant it sucks to not be free." He stops, planting his hands on his hips.

"I'm free."

"No, you're not. You're beholden to him." House shrugs. "If that's how you like it, fine." He wanders the corridor, his gaze drifting over the lifetimes and lives: pompous dudes in powdered wigs, a war ravaged field, a young woman hunkered deep into a shadowy corner, sobbing.

"I'm an extension of him, there's a difference." She closes the gap between them, moving in tandem with House again. "The seven of us are each a part of him. He made us.

"Oooh. You nasty little death spawns." He bares his teeth and waggles his fingers in her face. "You like doing his grunt work?"

She tilts her head, giving him a thoughtful look. "I don't know what that is."

"Slave labor. You and yours are nothing more than glorified slaves."

"It's better than what you are."

"And that is?"

"You're a slave to your pain," she tells him. "I know, I've seen how it makes you crawl, how it makes you yearn for your pills." The gold flecks in her eyes flash at him. "Pathetic."

"Better to be a slave to pain than to him."

"You can't avoid him forever. Eventually he'll get what he wants."

They stare at one another for a long moment.

"Can I go now?" he asks.

"There's the door." She floats behind him, indicating a blinking red 'Exit' sign with a wave of her hand. Below the sign is a gunmetal gray door with a push bar. It looks suspiciously familiar, kind of like that funny old stairwell door.

_Oooh, now that wasn't there before. My, my. Things come and go so quickly here..._

"Gee, thanks." He is moving at a good clip: a half run/half trot.

"You'll be back."

The smirk in her tone offers House his first icy taste of fear since he arrived.

"And then you'll have to face _him._"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One key is in his left hand, one is in his right.

They are two keys with a common anomaly.

Wilson holds them up to the ceiling lamp, inclining his head, squinting as he studies them. "I'll be damned."

"What?" Foreman is on his knees, working on the lock. The soft sounds of snicking and clicking clash with the early morning quiet. But they don't seem to bother Foreman, who sets to his task with a diligence he usually reserves for differential diagnoses and neurological maladies. He uses a slim metal tool, most likely left over from some long lost time in his history. Digging into the guts of the sturdy lock, he listens to the secret language of metal against metal, waiting for the telltale click that will announce his success.

"Both keys have been filed down in exactly the same place." Wilson lowers his hands, continuing to gaze at the keys as if they hold the answer to...everything.

"You think House did it?" Foreman asks.

"Who else?"

Foreman pauses to wipe his forehead on his sleeve. "How would he get your key?"

"House is a crafty son of a bitch, you know that."

"So if he took the trouble to file the keys, he must have known we would try to get in here."

The men look at each other. Wilson has no intention of owning up to the fear riding on his shoulders, snapping its whip against his flanks. It is not difficult to see that Foreman feels that trepidation too.

"How's it coming?" Wilson tilts his chin at the lock.

Foreman returns to his negotiations with the pick and the metal. "Almost there, I think."

In another moment the lock surrenders to Foreman's expertise. "We're in," he announces without a trace of a smile.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

"House?"

Wilson is the first to enter, his footfalls loud against the hardwood. He traipses through the brightly lit room, through lamplight, ceiling light, the reading lamplight by the desk. Attempting to keep up, Foreman stumbles, nearly tripping over the stepladder by the bookcase.

"Damn!"

Pausing in mid stride, Wilson thinks there is only one reason the stepladder would be set up in that particular spot. He steps back giving himself a better view. His gaze moves up, up to the very top of the case, where House stores his 'serious' stash. Morphine. As far as he can tell, the box is gone.

_Toolatetoolatetoolatetoolate..._

"Morphine."

It is all he has to say to put a fire under both their butts, impelling them to race into the bedroom to see...

...House, fully clothed, splayed across his mattress. The bedding is a tangled mess, one blanket by his head, one wrapped around his arm and a portion of his torso. It looks like a battle zone, man verses comforters. The sheets seem to have been wrenched from the mattress, tossed to the floor in a heap; one lonely edge of material clings gamely to the bed frame.

Wilson squints. The room is suddenly too bright. His anxiety now overrides all other emotions as time stretches and slows to a snail-like creep. He takes two lumbering steps to the side of the bed, images impressing themselves into his brain like crime photos.

_Click._

The metal box is here, its lid open, its contents rifled through.

_Click._

One syringe is still in its wrapper.

_Click._

The other (_three quarters full) _is on the bed, poking from beneath the blanket.

_Click. _

Two morphine vials lay above the syringe, one empty, one partially full.

_Click. _

Wilson's two fingers press against House's neck, feeling (_hoping, wishing)_ for a pulse.

_Click. _

A dot of blood has dried in the crook of House's arm, just below the rolled up sleeve and tourniquet band.

_Click. _

Wilson lifts up first one of House's eyelids, then the other.

_Click. _

Pupils are constricted.

Wilson gathers the vials and the syringes, tucking them away in the box. Later he will dispose of the syringes properly. Now it is best to simply keep these and the medication out of sight. "Breathing's shallow, his pulse is steady but slow. Looks like he tried to give himself an extra dose but passed out before he could do much. Still...we should bring him in, give him a thorough once over. It'll teach him a good lesson to wake up as a patient.

"Maybe we should give him a dose of Naloxone just to make sure. Is there any in his stash?" Foreman says.

"Why would he keep an antidote for morphine poisoning around?" Wilson searches through the box, checking under a package of cotton balls, an extra tourniquet, a small plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. "I mean, it would only be the _sensible_ thing to do. But it doesn't matter. We couldn't administer it to him without knowing how long he's been out, anyway."

"That's true."

"Donwanna."

House stirs, swimming against the tide of blankets and pillows.

Wilson places a hand on his shoulder. "House."

"Mmm. I don't wanna go." After two failed tries, House pushes himself to a sitting position.

"We thought you might have over medicated yourself," Foreman says.

"Ohhhhh, ye of lit-tle faith." House scrubs a hand through his hair. "When am I ever not careful?"

"Careful? You left a syringe on the bed like a fucking junkie. You've got a bloody hole in your arm."

House seems surprised, raising his brows at that smidgen of rust colored blood just below his bicep. "Jus' a pinprick."

"Why the hell did you feel the need to do morphine?" Wilson asks. His left fist clenches, his breath catching in his throat. What he would most like to do right now is lay his friend out with a powerhouse punch to the jaw. "Were you in that much distress?"

"You dunno anythin' 'bout it." His eyes close. He runs his tongue across his lower lip, head nodding, chin bobbing against his chest.

"You planned this." Wilson jabs House's shoulder, causing House to flinch, gasp, and lurch forward. "You filed down your spare key and mine so I couldn't get in." Wilson's tone grows higher and shriller. "What were you thinking about?"

"I din't do that."

"Then who did?"

House mumbles something unintelligible, then giggles, favoring both men with a butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth grin.

"You erased Foreman's number from my phone." Wilson is yelling now.

"Did not...girly." House giggles again and juts his head up and back like a chicken pecking.

"Girly?"

"Yeah, _girly_." He makes prancing motions with his fingers. "Li'l pretty shoes, lacy collar, cutesy pigtails all tied up with bows."

"Call Cuddy at home," Wilson hisses to Foreman. "Let her know what's going on."

"No ambulance?"

"No. We'll bring him in."

Foreman cautiously pulls out his cell, while Wilson throws him a nearly imperceptible nod.

"You cheated for me, thank you ve-ery much," House continues. "Pushed your answers right where I...where he could see 'em."

Wilson folds his arms, raises his brows.

"Sooo long ago."

Foreman ducks his head, turns his back to the bed and murmurs into his phone.

"You better not be calling an amb'lance." House shakes a finger at Foreman. "'cause I won' go."

"He's calling Cuddy." Wilson taps his foot; Foreman continues his call. "We're bringing you to get checked out."

"Nawww. Fore-man...I'm your boss," House says with a bit less conviction. "Yer s'pposed to listen to me."

"She'll meet us there in fifteen minutes." Foreman says, tucking his phone away.

House watches them, a wary, fearful look in his eyes.

"What happened to you?" Wilson sits on the edge of the bed. "What could have compelled you to do this?"

That wariness on House's face hitches up a notch. His eyes widen, whatever color might have remained in his cheeks drains, leaving them a pasty white. He is obviously terrified...of something. He trembles, clutching at his blanket, dragging it up to his chest, as if to ward off something very, very bad.

Wilson kneels on the bed, grasping him by his shoulders. "Talk to me."

"Sorry," House's voice is a thin raspy breath in the wind. "Gotta go." His head jerks up to the right, then to the left as if being pummeled by the fists of a welterweight. He moans, his eyelids fluttering closed as his head lolls to one side.

"House?" Wilson checks his pulse again and finds it racing like a thoroughbred in the final lap of the Preakness.

"What the hell was _that?_" Foreman's tone is jagged, edgy. Frightened.

"I have no idea." Wilson attempts to tug the blankets away from House's somnolent form. But as out of it as House is, his body is too stiff, the majority of blankets remain trapped beneath him, except for the portion he clutches desperately to his chest.

There is nothing more Wilson can do except make sure the metal box isn't on the bed when they carry House out of here. He sighs, hefting the box under his arm, his gaze falling on the sorry looking man on the bed. Yeah, Wilson knows he shouldn't let the situation get to him. What he really should do is package these sick, sad feelings away until he is alone in his room, Then he can have an enjoyable hour, sinking deep inside their murk until he is saturated in every last inch of their dankness. Alone in his room he can toss away the brave face and allow himself some tears. Until then, there is no sense dwelling on House, his demons and his stupidity. Just do the job that needs to be done. No time for self pity. No time for pity at all.

"It's probably a good idea to wash that blood off his arm," he tells Foreman, making his way to the bookcase and the stepladder. He climbs up and pushes the box as far back as it will go. "Let's not give anyone any additional reasons make to make snide junkie diagnostician jokes."

"Bad news travels fast, you know that." Foreman says. "In a few hours House'll be the talk of the hospital."

"Yeah." Wilson climbs down the ladder and heads toward the unconscious man on the bed. "And I don't doubt for a minute that the stupid ass will get off on the attention. It'll probably be the goddamn highlight of his week."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

"This could have been so easy."

House rubs his jaw, wincing at the soreness, remembering how the dude's fists came at him from nowhere. The guy had some powerful one-two punch.

_Pop! pop! Stick and move, old man, stick and move._

"But you had to complicate things, didn't you?"

This place is nothing like the white wonderland of towers and tents he had visited earlier.

"I tried to make the experience as pleasant and interesting as possible."

This place is a cold corridor of emptiness, brown walls shot through with pulsing shades of purples and reds. The colors undulate and writhe like long flowing strands of DNA, like images from a 1968 Jefferson Airplane lightshow. An underlying rhythm of a beating heart is pervasive, all encompassing, a shout out to the fact he is still very much alive.

Somewhere.

_Psychedelic, ma-an._

"But you didn't care about that, did you?"

Legs splayed, House sits in the center of the pounding, the moving, dancing, sensuous flow of dark twisted color. He kind of likes the beat and is actually enjoying the moment until a realization hits him. With an odd twinge of regret, he notices that he is no longer wearing that white robe of privilege.

_Bad sign, lummox._

Now clad in everyday Greg garb, Nike Shox, Old South t-shirt beneath the wrinkled blue dress shirt, gray suit jacket and faded jeans, he feels oddly out of place, a stranger in a strange land. He senses he is being observed, ogled, _judged_ by a thousand prying eyes.

But he is alone, except for the colors...and the voice.

"You are selfish."

"Like you aren't?" House shouts to the air. The temperature drops. His breath frosts, swirling in slo mo before him. Shivering, he wraps his arms around his torso, rubbing his hands up and down his shoulder blades. Squeezing his eyes shut, he conjures up images of his bed, his office, his desk, the diagnostics room, a bag of chips and a turkey sandwich on Wilson's lunch tray.

"I get what I want."

"Fuck yo-oooou," House sings.

Snow mixed with hail is in the updated forecast. The nasty weather pummels him, drenches him as he covers his head with his hands, leans over and realizes...

...a slow throb has started in his right thigh..

_Pain. It's baa-aack!"_

Force of habit commands him to look for his cane. But it is nowhere to be found in this universe. And his pills?

_Oh, really now. You think they're going to be waiting for you in your front jeans' pocket like good little pills should?_

No, he's not even going to bother checking because that is exactly what Mort, the evil dude of weather, life and death, would like him to do.

"And why," House thinks, "should I give any more than I'm forced to?"

_A bit of rebellion is good for the soul. But, hey, you'll end up doing that slave labor cha-cha in the end, just like your groovy pal Sera._

He bends his left leg and presses his forehead to his kneecap. The cold is digging deep now, pushing in on his extremities and his thigh, which has begun its trademark caterwauling.

The storm intensifies, sleet mixing with hailstones and blinding snow. He breathes slow and easy, conjuring up North Carolina summers and thick slabs of heat rising from golden Cairo sands. The self hypnosis is beginning to work its magic, little by little, but now something is stirring against his right thigh, thrusting him out into the cold again. Slick, slimy and cold, it makes it way down his leg and slips out of his pants leg.

_Why it's your old pal, Black Unctuous Thing!_

He blinks at it in disbelief as the mess of precipitation pelts its slick skin. The liquid sizzles on it like an eggs on a skillet before evaporating in clouds of rust colored steam.

The frigid wind picks up, bellowing and howling as it slams into him. He cries out, slapping his hands against his ears, making a valiant but futile attempt to block the sound.

He hardly notices as The Black Unctuous Thing slithers on top of his right thigh and coils around itself.

"Are you ready to try again, Greg?"

His teeth chatter, sneaky tears slip from the corner of his eyes before he even realizes he is crying. The sub freezing temperature and the brutal elements tear at his exposed skin, making it sting and burn. Slowly he lowers his hands, letting his trembling fingers run lightly over his friend. The Black Unctuous Thing shows its appreciation by rubbing against House's legs and stomach like a loyal puppy.

"Are you?"

Weariness and intermittent jolts of fear quickly take their toll. The pain in House's thigh blossoms and sprouts like some grotesque, massive weed, making his final decision for him.

"Yeah," House manages to reply over the wind's raging aria. "I guess so."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Thanks to all who have read, commented and are enjoying the story. My apologies to those from Cleveland, Ohio and Fort Lee, New Jersey.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

Thanks to the great and powerful NaiveEve for her wonderful beta skills.

**-12-**

Wilson wonders if his Very Bad Awful Morning will level off to being merely 'awful' any time soon. He has lost track of time, which is not a huge surprise, seeing how the last two hours felt like two days-two long, miserable days. In addition, the ache in his upper arms and its nasty cousin, back pain, are clamoring for his attention. Helping Foreman haul House's limp six foot two inch frame from the bed, out of the apartment and into the back seat of the Volvo had been a true test of stamina and strength. In retrospect, they probably should have called an ambulance. And he should have figured that any attempt at subterfuge involving House would end in failure.

True to her word, Cuddy was waiting at the hospital's emergency entrance when Wilson and Foreman arrived with their bundle of joy. Immediately she dispatched two gurney toting orderlies and a three person medical team to take care of things. House was tended to and rushed off to a room more quickly than Wilson would have thought possible. But this was not a private affair. It seemed that every idle EMT, every nurse on a break, every doctor not currently burdened with a patient had taken that precise moment to pass by this particular area of the hospital. House in trouble was always of major interest on a slow news day. And Cuddy, it seemed, had been too overwhelmed with concern, regret, anger and frustration to shoo any of the gawkers away.

Wilson doesn't hold it against her, recalling how this variety pack of emotions skittered across her face once, then again and one more time for good luck.

Now the vitals monitor beeps out a comforting rhythm as House sleeps. Wilson sits at his bedside, not daring to check the time. God knows he's probably supposed to be at work by now. But Cuddy will handle things. Cuddy will make sure everything is up and running. The thought soothes him. Now and then, when he lets his eyes drift closed, he plays a game, synchronizing his breathing with the rhythm of House's vitals. Almost like music, he thinks. Almost like a song...

"Nice to know you're paying attention."

Wilson's eyes snap open. He lurches forward, emitting a noise somewhere between a gurgle and a drone.

"I could be dead and you wouldn't even know it."

The monitor beeps its rhythmic, foot tappin' beat. Wilson clears his throat. "I've got it covered." He indicates the monitor with a tilt of his head.

"What are you doing?" House asks. He is sitting now. His tone is calm, which belies the fact he is taking in his surroundings with wide, frightened eyes.

"Are you...okay?" Wilson asks.

"What is this, question for a question time? You should be at work instead of sleeping. Only _I_ can sleep on the job and get away with it. "

"You were just so out of it, I thought-"

"I don't have much time," House snaps. That lethargy and drugged out, childlike demeanor are gone. He seems more like himself except for the trepidation meshing with the irritation in his tone. His gaze just won't quit, continuing to flit restlessly from the walls to the table to the lights.

"Relax. You're not going anywhere." Wilson rises from his chair to sit on the edge of the bed. "You're here because we wanted to make sure you hadn't poisoned yourself."

House's head whips toward him.

Wilson scoffs. "Don't thank me or anything."

House folds his hands on his blanket, forefingers tapping together as his head lowers. He bites his bottom lip, seeming edgy, pensive but something...some random thought suddenly alters his mood. His eyes shift toward Wilson and his frown transforms into a slow, tantalizing grin. "Wanna see something cool?"

"What?"

"Something way cooler than anything you've ever imagined."

Wilson returns to his chair. "Go back to sleep, House."

But House no longer seems in the mood for rest. He throws off the wires connecting him to the monitor and eases himself off the bed. Wilson can't help but gawp at the fact that House is a) again moving along quite well without his cane and b) his apparel is by no means hospital issue.

"Where's your cane? I know I brought it."

After giving the room another cursory once over, House shrugs. "I don't need it right now. When I do it will show up."

"It will...show up?"

"Yeah."

"And excuse me for asking...but what the hell are you wearing?"

"What?" Spreading his hands, House glances down to check his look. "Oh, this little ol' thing?" He hefts his shoulders, clicks his tongue. "He says I've gotta wear it and there's no arguing with the dude. He'll throw a fit otherwise. I know he'll throw a fit when he sees you." Winking, House adds in a whisper, "He doesn't like you, thinks you distract me."

"Who's 'he'?'

"So many questions for one so small." House laughs and smoothes his robe with the flat of his hands.

"You look like the lead rider in a Roman chariot race."

"Sssh, keep your voice down. If Cuddy sees this getup she'll want one too." He sidles next to Wilson. "But no can do. This is, after all, a robe of privilege. Now..." His eyes twinkle with some strange otherworldly light. "...are you ready?"

"For what?"

"Touch my robe."

"Who are you, the Ghost Of Christmas Present?"

"Funny." House waggles a forefinger at his own flowing sleeve. "Touch."

"_You're_ touched," Wilson grumps but puts fingers to fabric anyway. Immediately the back of his neck prickles with a weak, persistent charge. Short, sharp, shocked. The tips of his fingers tingle. He wants to ask...lots of things but can't seem to get his tongue to form the words. House is smiling. He thinks this is funny. Yeah, real funny.

And suddenly...the world turns white. Wilson is blinded by the brightness of it...the whiteness. He is snowblind. Polar bear in a snowstorm blind. But he is still...somewhere. His fist clenches fabric, the sleeve of House's silly white robe. The robe of privilege he called it. Well, of course it must be a special robe for House to even consider wearing it. It's a dream.

Of course it is. He is still in the hospital, seated at House's bedside. Only now they are both asleep.

"Look."

Okay, he'll play along. The quicker he gets on with this foolishness, the faster he can wake up and get back to the business at hand. He can't spend the whole day at House's side. Work calls; patients to see, lives to save.

"Look!"

The snowblindness dissipates. It is like cottony fog pulling away from itself and drifting off to parts unknown. But unlike that fog, this one continues to command a presence, like the whole world's been dipped inside it but shaken only partially clean.

Wilson's mouth falls open. "What the hell?"

He is surrounded by a crowd of milling, bemused looking...ghosts. His shoulder is jostled as a tall woman in basketball garb drifts by. A callous looking guy sporting a fishing hat with a dented brim follows suit. They bobble away as Wilson is pulled deeper into the throng.

Well, maybe they're not ghosts. Wilson doesn't believe in ghosts. But these guys are certainly pale as specters. Corpses have more color in their faces and their skin. These...people are almost transparent but...not...quite. Their clothes have a blush of hue, as if faeries had daubed them with dots of pastel pink, blue and gray before fluttering away.

The air is filled with murmurs, though no lips move to shape sounds. Still, from the tone of their soft chatter, Wilson can somehow tell these 'people' are his compadres. They don't know what the hell is going on either.

Seriously though, they're not really like him, are they? There is a wrongness about them, something odd he just can't put a finger on-

"They're dead," House tells him.

Strange. So intent is he on this extraordinary experience, Wilson has almost forgotten about House. But Wilson's fingers no longer grip that robe of privilege. The realization zaps him like the electric jolt of a taser. House? Craning his neck, Wilson attempts to find him over the sea of filmy, opaque humanity He has to be here somewhere. His voice was just in his head. In his head? What does it mean?Awww, it's a dream.

His concentration flags. Dread descends. He feels alone and afraid.

"House," he cries, pushing through the relentless people sea. He stumbles into the guy with the fishing hat. The guy turns slowly (_step by step_) to face Wilson, his mouth gaping wider and wider, revealing tiny white teeth and a lolling, pallid tongue. His white eyes bulge, like grapes about to burst.

"House!"

"Ssssh, I'm here." The familiar voice is in his mind, probably not real at all.

His eyes dart every which way, looking, seeking, hunting. Wilson thinks he sees House here, then over there, then...nowhere. It's like playing _Where Oh Where Is That Rascal_ _Greg?_ There! A brief glimpse of House sends Wilson pushing and shoving, struggling to catch up, upsetting the flow of pedestrian traffic. But no one complains or calls him 'buddy' or tells him to watch where the hell he's going. The most important thing for these folks, it seems, is getting to their final destination. He stops for a moment, taking one more look around before throwing his hands up in despair.

Smiling white robed figures float and dip above the throng, herding everyone off to somewhere. He finds himself following along, hoping the next person to jostle him will be House. But it doesn't happen. It is not happening.

He is routed off into a group heading toward a tent the size of a garden shed. His group leader, a young man with flame colored hair, a pug nose and an engaging smile, floats above, directing each person through the tent's open flaps. He seems harmless enough, reminding Wilson of the guy at the airport who waves planes in for a landing.

But now something smells. No, actually, something stinks. It occurs to Wilson as he closes in on the tent flaps, that this place might not be as pure and clean as it looks. It reeks of garbage left too long in the sun, of bodies blown apart, the detritus of a battlefield: guts, bits of brain, intestines, an eyeball here, a half a finger there. He is a doctor, an oncologist, a firsthand witness to how the failings of human physiology can turn a body and life into a gruesome mess. But it's not fair. He sees it all so clearly now, how unfair it really it. Stifling a sob, Wilson presses his fists against his eyes, his left foot lifting to cross into the tent's cool interior. It's just not-

"Noooo you don't." He is pulled away, whirled around. He spies a flicker of stubble, a flash of blue eyes. House has arrived to wrench him out of the queue.

"Hey...I lost my place." Wilson sniffs away residual tears.

"You don't want to go there."

"Well, why not? It's cooler inside and I don't think it stinks-"

"You'd never come back." House has that know-it-all smirk: an arrogance you could shoot down but never defeat. "Is that what you want?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

They weave a surprisingly smooth path through the crowd, the lower edge of House's palm pressing between Wilson's shoulder blades, urging him along.

"Here." They stop beside a small white fence at a remote edge of this field, yard or whatever it is. House squints toward the crowd. "It never stops, this whole life-death thing. I wanted you to see if first hand," House tells him softly. "without getting caught. Unfortunately he knows you're here, which is going to put a damper on our plans. I thought I could show you the inner sanctum. But he-"

"Who?"

"Death dude, the big guy, the top cop, the Big Kahuna."

"Ah."

"He's really pissed and guess what? He's on his way."

"Then maybe I'd better go." Wilson attempts to amble off but House holds him firmly by the shoulders.

"Look over there." House directs Wilson's gaze with a waggle of fingers. "Check out the tower."

Raising his head, Wilson gawps over the bobbing, wandering throng at...a wonder, a marvel: a massive white tower, floating above the human sea. It seems to be made of fog and cloud and vapor. Now and then, bits of it drift up and disappear into the sky's glaring whiteness. Meandering around its balcony are folks all spruced up in those silly robes. One of them, a slim yellow haired guy with a hawk like nose leans over the edge, surveying the crowd, like he is searching for a special certain someone.

"He's looking for me, isn't he?" Wilson attempts to duck behind House.

"Yep, and hiding sure ain't gonna help."

"Now here's the six million dollar question. Why the hell did you bring me here?"

"I thought it might be...interesting."

It is impossible to be angry at House when that little boy grin is plastered across his face.

Search and destroy. The yellow haired guy is diligent, Those green eyes are huge, seeking, searching, scoping Wilson out. Eventually they lock on him, holding him, commanding him to stay right where he is. The guy's look is all dankness and darkness, like howling winds whipping through open graves. Now he whoops and cackles, rotating one arm like Pete Townsend doing a windmill before pounding that final thunderous chord of "Won't Get Fooled Again".

The sky shimmers. The crowd, the tents, the air, recoil, preparing themselves for a maelstrom.

"Time to go." House says, gripping Wilson by the shoulders. He spins Wilson to face him and there is a sense of urgency in his movements, in how the tips of his fingers press against Wilson's collarbone. "Remember the tower." Gold flecks dance, twirl and spin inside House's blue irises. "Only the tower." He presses his thumb and forefinger against Wilson's temples, three fingers splayed across his brow.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is no maelstrom. It was a hoax, another of Mort's antics designed to confuse and infuriate him.

Wilson slips through House's fingers, melting like candle wax into a lively array of colors. Brown for his hair, red for his tie, blue for his shirt. House stares, transfixed, as the hues merge together on the ground, shifting to form an image like a chalk drawing on asphalt.

"Did you like that?" The image speaks to him, its growing resemblance to the death dude is remarkable. It shifts once again, now swirling up like a mini tornado, rising, rising, forming legs, arms, teeth, hair, until it is Mort. His smile is beatific; those green eyes gleam like newly polished emeralds. "Scared the hell out of him, didn't I?"

"You didn't have to do that."

"It was magnificent." Mort spreads his arms, as if to embrace House, the rabble, the tents, his minions. "You're lucky I was amused. No telling what might have happened if your friend bored me."

"I'm leaving." House turns, heading for the tower.

"You didn't answer my question."

He stops, curling his fists, well aware he evaded the question. But he is reticent to talk about the power he has been thrown. He won't allow himself to consider what it would mean to keep it.

"Did...you...like...being able to bring Wilson here? How did it feel, being omnipresent, omnipotent, godlike for a bit?"One delicious, hot buttered perk.

The words echo and swell over and over in his head. Turning toward Mort, he lowers his head slowly, bringing his hands to his ears, attempting to silence the voice and the intensifying chatter and hum of the rabble.

"Too much to absorb all at once. I know." Mort smiles. He is at House's side, moving those expert fingers against his neck. "I know. We'll go to a quieter place."

House closes his eyes, enjoying the soothing motion of Mort's fingers despite himself. When he dares to look again, he finds the rabble, the tents, the white against white have vamoosed.

Now the world has gone red.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The world careens back into place, the overwhelming white supplanted by blues, golds and reds...

"-Wilson?"

"Tow-er," he mumbles, shaking his head as he opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is cleavage. Like a partially opened gift it peeks invitingly from between the opening of a frilly red satin blouse. "Cuddy." He rubs a hand down his face, surprised at the amount of stubble on his cheeks, deflated by the drool on his chin.

"I'm sorry, James, but you have patients waiting for you," she tells him, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I held them off as long as I could."

"I know." He shifts in his chair, wincing as his aches and pains continue their assault from last night. He raises his eyes toward the bed. "How is he?"

She lifts a brow and shrugs. "Sleeping it off."

"Good." Pressing one hand against the armrest, he pushes himself up and stands by the bed. House is dreaming, his eyes flitting every which way beneath his lids, one side of his mouth lifts into a gentle half-grin. A forefinger twitches. Wilson notes that House is clad in aqua hospital issued sleepwear and his cane stands in wait in the corner behind the bed. He has no idea why this should matter. It just does.

"Tell whoever's waiting I'll be with them in fifteen minutes." Wilson scrubs a hand through his hair. "If I don't shower and shave they might wonder why a derelict has taken over my practice."

"No problem." She joins him at House's bedside. "I can't believe he did this."

"I can." Wilson shrugs. "If he gets a notion in his head, it doesn't matter who it's going to affect or hurt. As long as he gets what he wants-"

"He needs to see Schiller," Cuddy says, smoothing House's blanket. "As soon as he can speak and comprehend, he's going. And don't let him talk you out of it."

"Me? I've never been a pushover."

"Oh, no?"

"Well," Wilson throws her a lazy grin. "hardly ever."

Cuddy pats him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll see you later."

Wilson yawns as the door drifts closed, as House mutters in dream speak. He turns to leave, then pauses in mid-stride. A tower, impossibly immense, made of clouds and vapor, floats high above...everything. It flickers in his mind's eyes, then vanishes. His body tenses as his palms go cold, his eyes moving cautiously, expectantly around the room. Remember... No. Wilson forces his thoughts toward real stuff: breakfast, patients, a shower, a shave, managing to shove the thought of the impossibly immense tower out of his head.

His hand trembles, slipping off the door handle twice. Spitting out a curse, he twists the damn handle, yanks open the door and hotfoots it down the corridor, leaving House alone with his dreams.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Red.

It is the color of passion, of ire and fire. It is the deep, rich color of oxygenated blood-a stubborn entity to be reckoned with-a life force.

House sits in the center of the red room, head down, arms slung over bent knees. Above him, hovering in the air (that lub dubs like the beat of a healthy heart), Mort plays the observer, judge, jury, instigator and interrogator. Fluttering to and fro above her master is Sera. She is the seducer, Mort's backup plan if all else fails.

"Now what?" House mutters.

"That is up to you," Mort says.

"Bullshit. You want what you want." House lifts his head and glares at him.

"Not if it means dealing with your constant obstinance." Mort smirks. "That gets old real fast."

Humming some sweet, sad tune, Sera circles overhead, occasionally dipping low to caress House's cheek. Her touch melts him but he forces himself to swat her away with a halfhearted swing of his hand.

"You said my purpose here is to humor you," House says.

"Oh, and you have." Mort chuckles.

"You've tried intimidation, seduction, flattery. You even had me drug myself so I'd be in the right frame of mind to follow you."

"Yes, all true."

"I do believe your desperation has reared it's ugly little head." Spreading his arms, House's glare darkens to a glower. "You said you wanted my wit, my input. Walk with me, talk with me." He shakes his head slowly. "But you're full of it. All you've done-"

"-is bring you pleasure, perks like you've never experienced."

House's gaze softens and drifts toward Sera of its own accord. She is in the midst of transforming into that incredible white fluttery thing for which he has no defense. Violet eyes, huge and irresistible lock on his.Don't.

No? Oh, come on, it'll be fun.His mouth falls open. "You're playing with me, preying on my weaknesses to get me to stay. I call foul."

"You'll stay if I want you to," Mort tells him as Sera drifts closer. "Staying is not the problem. Your wanting to stay. That's the key. It took me this long to get you here. Do you think I'm going to give up without a fight?""This is getting old."

Sera stands before him, red lips set in an impish grin, violet eyes calming him, drawing him in. She runs her hands over his face, down, down his shoulders, his biceps. In a moment she changes course, running her fingers lightly up and down his arms.

"Stop," he hisses.

Laughter bubbles from her lips. Those bubbles floating up, up bursting against the walls in blotches of pink, blues and yellows...

...as death dude applauds, and each handclap is like a thunder boom. The walls quake from the force of them.

"Stop!" House shouts and, after a moment, shouts it again to make his point that much clearer.

Something clicks and the energy level in the room powers down The pair stop their antics and stare at each other in surprise, then turn to look at House. He returns their look with a smirk, pretty darn chuffed that his anger has put a damper on the Mort and Sera Show.

Mort's brow furrows. "It's no fun like this."

"Guess not."

"It never was."

Sera folds her arms, twists those pretty lips into a pout and shakes her head.

"I thought it would be different this time," sighs Mort. "After all, you don't have much going for you...over there."

"Oh, I don't know..."

"You have no friends."

"I have one..."

"Oh, wow, that's right-the skittish Dr. Jim." Mort claps his hands and chuckles.

"One friend is all you need, " House tells him.

"You're miserable, in pain."

"So I am."

"You're a pill popping gimp."

"You know what? House shakes a finger at the two of them. "You need a hobby other than messing with my head. Let...me...see." He taps his chin, his gaze darting from Mort to Sera. "Hey, I know. Why not make an attempt to do your jobs? I challenge you to keep me from getting bored when I go back."

"See?" Mort throws up his arms. "This is why you end up hobnobbing with the rabble every single time you're here." He punches the wall, causing Sera to flinch and the colorful blotches to tremble and break apart like paint chips. "No wonder you have such an ancient soul. You don't have the courage to move on."

"That's my problem. Don't concern your boyishly blond haired head about it." He stands, brushing flakes of color off his robe. "You're a nuisance" He indicates Sera with a quirk of his chin. "That goes for you too, Elvira. Don't bother me anymore. I don't need your promises, your ridiculous robe or your damn perks."

"You say that every time too."

"This time I mean it." He flutters his eyelids like a winsome coquette. "Honest I do."

The dude is in front of him now, seeming much taller than usual. His shadow is overwhelming, huge, darkening the red room to a somber mulberry. House must lean back and tilt his head to see Mort's face.

"Do you have any idea of what I can do to you...?" Mort's voice is gruff, low, barely a murmur.

And suddenly...it's like an ice floe has broken apart inside of House, its shards catching a ride through his bloodstream, branching off into his nervous system, settling cool inside his capillaries and arteries. Bruise colored walls surround him, thrumming and pounding their heartbeatin' rhythm.

"...where I can send you?" The edge of Mort's lips brushes his ear.

There is a flutter at House's shoulder as Sera zips by him, then through him, offering him a second or two of pleasure before the fear kicks in again._This fear will be your undoing,_ _old man. Give in and you'll be his slave, like Elvira up there_.

"You could send me to Hell or..." House hefts a virtual bat and knocks trepidation out of the park. "Cleveland."

"What?" Mort sniffs out a surprised laugh, which clashes boldly with the ominous presence he has assumed.

"Cleveland is a hole. I'll take Fort Lee, New Jersey or even Hell over Cleveland.

"That can be arranged." Mort waves a hand and the walls return to their gently pumping scarlet.

High above, Sera soars, her arms spread wide. She resembles a white bird flowing smoothly along on a gentle current of air.

"You put up a good fight," Mort says. "Again."

"How many times now?"

"Does it matter?

"Guess not."

"Can't say it hasn't been fun," House says. "Now get me the hell out of here."

"You're sure about this?"

House closes his eyes. "Wait." He reaches deep inside his robe and roots out the final vestige of Mort's world. The Black Unctuous Thing coils tightly around his wrist. House raises his hand and shakes it hard up and back until the Thing loosens and flies off. It hits the wall with a wet _thwack_, adhering to it like a sucker fish.

"Are you done?" Mort gives him a disgusted glare; Sera's eyes shimmer with tears.

House shouts, "I am _gone_."

"Then go where you belong." Mort presses his hand against House's brow, pinky and thumb against his temples, three fingers splayed across his brow...

...and...he...is...caught in the midst of the jostling, writhing, _panicked_ bodies of the rabble. Tossed from side to side, he is assailed by the sounds of grunts, moans, cries and the sickly sweet stench of decomposition. They detest him, blame him for their plight. He knows this because of the way they are clawing at him, crushing him, pushing him down, down into their black hole center. He can't see, can't breathe...

...and his head snaps up from his pillow. In his throat the scream sits, wedged in thick and tight.

It is only another moment before it flies free.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing and sticking with the story. I hope you all enjoyed the show!

**Disclaimers: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "Old Friends" was written by Paul Simon and two lines were used here to embellish the story.

**Beta Thanks:** Thank you, NaiveEve. You've gone above and beyond to help strengthen this tale. I appreciate all your hard work.

**-13-**

_This is what you know: _

_1) Beckman Hospital Center is your current place of residence._

_2) Located in Princeton, New Jersey, it is a mere hop, skip and bounding leap from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and the Gregory House Palace of Fun and Ill Repute..._

Mamie, the pretty, nice smelling aide, who seems to be his and his alone (judging by the amount of time she spends by his side), escorts him down the now familiar corridor which leads from his room to the elevator. Some nights he dreams about these walks, about Mamie's coffee colored hair that is fashioned in an expertly braided coif around her head. Her hairstyle reminds him of chocolate covered pretzels, a delicious garland of salty-choco goodness. He likes this. He also likes the way her brown skin shines under the fluorescents. In Greg's dreamland the light is brilliant against her cheeks, bursting apart into miniscule stars and planets to join each other in a circle dance around her smiling face. Pretzels, stars and planets. Wow. In his dreams he keeps busy, always doing, always thinking. It's funny. But when he wakes he doesn't laugh. He doesn't have the energy for laughter these days. He guesses he needs to save his strength for his dreams.

_The drugs, old man. The dru-ugs._

But Mamie has lots of energy. She is good at setting her pace 'just right', moving along with his halting, lopsided gait without mimicking it. She always walks on his left, never interfering with his progress or his cane. He realizes, even in the state he is in, that she is damn good at what she does and respects and admires her skill. Of course he doesn't tell her this. No sense giving anyone an inflated ego. She is, after all, just doing her damn job.

_...3) Dr. Schiller has diagnosed you with (drum roll please) Schizoaffective Disorder. With its lively blend of hallucinations, delusions and manic episodes it is so obviously...you. Stress put you here. See? You need to relax more, old man. Chill, baby. _

After every few steps Mamie leaves a light touch on his elbow, more to assure him of her presence than to steady him. He is already steady, steadier than he has ever been.

_Steady there, steady as you roll_

smoothly along the flatlands without encountering a hitch or an obstacle. His meds, the bitchin' combo of Risperdal and Lithium, are really good for making everything just...so. The world is smoooooth, like the road beneath his cycle, like the dough his mother used to roll out for sugar cookies. He used to love watching her use the rolling pin to press the dough thin, flat and even. Thin, flat and even. A new comedy troupe? No, it's the new improved shape of the Housian mind.

His mind is a wandering minstrel of late, regaling him with stories and songs of long ago. Dr. Schiller tells him it is a good thing to think and remember but to always make sure to separate the real from the imagined.

He is learning.

There are times the Zone invites him in to set a spell. And the invite doesn't always make him feel like shouting out a hip-hip hooray. The Zone has some mad powers over the passage of time, which reminds him of the other place-the one he is not supposed to think about anymore. Sooo, House is pretty loath to take the Zone up on its kind invite (although sometimes the tag team of Risperdal-Lithium snake their arms through his and accompany him inside). Once in there he loses track of time. Some days he thinks he has been sitting in his chair for five minutes and it turns out four hours have gone by. The Zone gives him the creeps. It feels like death's little 'time out' corner.

His thoughts are still jumbled, although not as badly as they were. At least now he can think, reason...and remember.

He doesn't enjoy not knowing stuff-stuff like how long he has been in Beckman's House of Loons, which is what he has secretly christened this place.

_Ssssh, no one needs to know that_ _particular personal, private thought._

Straight answers must be at a premium here since nobody is inclined to offer one. The staff prefers to answer almost every question with a question ("Now why do you want to trouble yourself about such things?" or "Why don't you ask Dr. Schiller?") So when he feels up to it, when he is between doses of the lovely ladies R & L, he does a bit of sneaking around. Schmoozing with Nurse Cammy while checking out the paperwork on her desk is loads of fun. He is a master of the quick scan, even when the forms, letters or open file folders are upside down. In this way he has discovered interesting facts about others who share his space (as part of the captive audience) but unfortunately, nothing about himself. His window of opportunity is limited, since once the next dose of his meds takes hold, he is gone, gone to lala land.

..._4) Wilson has visited and called you once or twice, as has Cuddy. You don't quite remember the conversations since you were well under the influence at the time... _

With some regret, House suspects he has told Dr. Schiller everything about death dude, Sera, the seven, the rabble. Everything. He never planned to allow all that stuff to come spilling out of his mouth but Schiller's office has lavender walls. Those walls are soothing. They make him feel all loose and okie dokie.

Or was it those firm yet gentle hands of Madames R & L taking hold of him and loosening his tongue?

_Could be..._

Everything in Dr. Schiller's office is smooth including the man himself. The psychiatrist's voice is deep and hypnotic. It lulls House, sometimes pulling him into sleep during their sessions. House still hasn't figured out if this is supposed to happen or if it is the drugs showing off their handiwork. Asking Schiller just gets him a sigh and a tolerant smile.

No sharp edges. Everything is soft and light and easy. Even the corners of the shiny mahogany desk are rounded. The office kind of bugs him. There is too much space in there. Those lavender walls seem to go back, back a mile, the ceiling seems

_far, far away..._

So what better way to fill up the unused space than with words?

..._5) You really, really want to go home to your piano and your PSP and your Tivo and that once a week visit from your call girl of choice. Wow. Returning to work sounds like fun too. You never thought you'd miss the everyday things but now that they're no longer yours... _

Mamie regales him with that joke again as they stop at the elevator bank, the one about the bears and the puddles and the bucket of mud. She knows lots of jokes but this one is his favorite. Again his energy flags and he can't find his laughter. But he gives her a quirk of a smile and she returns it, which seems enough for both of them.

He is not fond of the elevator and Mamie knows it. She already has his free hand in her own smaller, warmer one as they enter the car. He no longer feels like smiling, even though Mamie is in the middle of doing her spot on imitation of Dr. Schiller. The way she pushes her glasses down the bridge of her nose and tugs at her left ear is usually good for eliciting a small grin from him. But his preoccupation with the elevator makes him a less than attentive audience. Dr. Schiller says this is something they will just have to work on. Over time, Dr. Schiller says, this irrational fear and others like it will fade.

The problem is, these fears are not irrational. There is a very good reason for them. But House doesn't want to talk about this anymore. The meds are already soaking up his spirit. He doesn't want that essence totally obliterated, which is what will happen if he keeps ranting on.

_No, you're not stupid, just out of your friggin' mind..._

Mamie presses the Lobby button and House squeezes her hand and shuts his eyes as they descend.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The expansive rear lawn of the Facility descends down a grassy slope, cut off from a lake and a boathouse by a chain link fence. The fence is embellished with a garnish of barbed wire at the top, designed to dissuade even the craftiest of patients from attempting to bop over for a swim. Wilson sits beside House on a bench overlooking this scenic view.

"You'd think they'd take us for an outing over there," House says. "It's the only way I'd ever get to see Mamie in a bathing suit." House stretches his feet out, twirls one of his hospital issued slippers on his forefinger and flexes his toes in all that cool newly mown grass.

"You've got a crush on her," Wilson says.

House responds by closing his eyes, leaning his head back and soaking in the late spring sunshine.

Wilson smiles a little smile and thinks of the old friends Paul Simon sang about way back when.

_Sat on a park bench like bookends..._

His sentimentality feels wrong somehow.

_...how terribly strange to be seventy._

After all, he and House are not nearly as old as those guys in the song. But their situation _is_ terribly strange, nonetheless.

Mamie sits reading her book on a bench a few feet away. When she escorted House outside for this visit, she introduced herself to Wilson as the nurse's aide assigned to House's case. She has only two other patients in her care, both of whom are due to be discharged within a week. This makes it easy for her to devote a good deal of time to 'Greg'. Before leaving them to their conversation, she leaned over, whispering in Wilson's ear that her charge is very sweet, no trouble at all.

That's a switch.

_Drugs can work some pretty potent magic sometimes._

Every few minutes House will slowly turn his head to look for Mamie, throwing her a small grin before returning his attention to his toe flexing and Wilson. Today marks their first real visit since House's meltdown, three weeks earlier. The last time Wilson came a-calling, House had just been given his meds and was settled comfortably in the Zone. Over the course of Wilson's half hour stay, House managed a few monosyllabic grunts and some heavy snores before being carted back to bed.

"I think I scared her." House's voice is low, as if he is imparting a great secret.

"Mamie?"

"No!"

"Who?"

"When I screamed. When I came ba-" House inhales sharply, then eases out a long breath. "When I woke up in the hospital."

"You didn't scare anyone."

"Yes, I did. I scared Cuddy. I heard her tell Schiller how spooked she was. She thought I was sleeping but I heard every word." He smirks to himself and nods. "Tell her I'm sorry."

"No need. You just had a bad dream."

"Hmmph."

Birdsong and cicada chatter accompany House's twirling, flexing and glances at Mamie. "They don't tell me anything here," he says after a moment.

"Well, what do you want to know?" Immediately Wilson is sorry he asked, fearful he has wrenched open a door that should have remained shut.

"So, you're on my side? You'll be my mole? Dig deep while others sleep?" House raises his brows and bends his slipper down the middle with two hands. "I knew I could count on you."

"I think you've seen too many espionage films." Wilson struggles to keep a straight face but fails miserably.

"Go ahead. It's okay to laugh. Laughter is good for the soul, they tell me. Mamie said it just this morning. " House beams. "She's pretty."

"She is," Wilson says.

"I can't manage to laugh much these days, takes too much energy. Can't cry either." He tilts his head and shrugs.

"That will change," Wilson says. "You're in better shape than the last time I saw you."

"They don't tell me anything here," House grumps.

"You...already said that."

House flicks the toe of his slipper with his thumb. "So I did." He winks. "Just seeing if you were paying attention."

"Sure."

"So..."

"So?" Wilson drums his fingers against his thigh.

"How long have I been here?"

Wilson sighs. "Haven't you asked Schiller?"

House gives him a look, acid and direct, and Wilson feels a small spark of elation. Now _there's_ the House he knows.

"No."

"Yes, you have." Wilson waves a hand at him.

"You _have_ to tell me. They won't."

"Why is it so important?" Wilson silently curses the tremor in his voice. "There must be a reason they don't want you to-"

"It's important-" House folds his hands and steeples his forefingers beneath his chin. "to me."

The sky is picture postcard perfect today. Wilson stares at the cumulous clouds. They are interesting, their abstract shapes pulling together to forms... a sculpture...a castle...a _tower_. He throws the thought down a deep virtual well and wishes he were in a jet on his way to somewhere pleasant, warm and trouble free. Could House come along? Sure, House could come along. Get him a Mai Tai with a little umbrella sticking out of the maraschino cherry, an iPod loaded with the complete works of Robert Johnson, The Who and The Stones, a pair of Bose headphones, and he would be all set.

"It's important," House says again, leaning toward him, putting the pressure on. "But I guess you don't care."

"Three weeks," Wilson hisses. He rubs his eyes to the sound of Mamie turning a page in her book.

Rubbing his stubble with the flat of his palm, House lets out another long breath, sits back and places his slipper beside him on the bench. "They must have reduced my meds. I can kind of think again. It's...like coming up from some dark underwater cave and breathing fresh air. You don't think you could ever miss something so simple and basic."

"That's good."

"I'm more clearheaded than I've been in...three weeks."

"That's good too."

"I want to understand."

No surprise there.

Wilson lowers his voice to a whisper and shifts closer to House. "What don't you understand?"

House meets his gaze. "Nobody is straight with me here. If you lie to me too, where does that leave me?"

House is a supreme manipulator. Nobody is more of an expert at getting what they want through the power of words and guilt. Wilson is well aware of this. But he asks the question anyway. "What do you _want_, House?"

"One thing."

"Okay."

"An honest answer to one question."

Folding his arms, Wilson sits back and clears his throat. "Shoot."

House licks his lips, places the slipper on his lap and rubs his thumb down its soft cotton top . "I need to know," he says. Closing his eyes, he mouths those words over and over like a silent prayer.

"Okay."

"I need to know if...you remember."

A cool eel like thing dips and dives inside Wilson's gut. "And what is it I'm supposed to be remembering?"

House turns his head slowly and looks at him hard. Those red rimmed eyes project a mix of fear and...resignation. "Why are you playing this game with me now?"

"I honestly don't know what-"

"I thought." House presses his lips together, his gaze never leaving Wilson's. "I thought..." His voice cracks. "I guess I thought wrong."

Clasping his hands tightly around his thighs, Wilson rocks slightly up and back as the eel like thing splishes and splashes, over and under the waves. "I really don't know what-"

"Mamie!" House cries.

Wilson whips his head toward the aide, who slaps her book shut and hurries toward them. "Everything alright here, Greg?"

"I'm tired."

"Mamie, give us a few minutes," Wilson says.

"I said," House clenches his fists and stares straight ahead. "I am tired."

Mamie smiles but her dark eyes flash her concern. "I think he might have had enough for today."

House throws his slipper to the grass and, with a grunt, thrusts his foot inside it.

"This is the first time we've tried this." Mamie retrieves the cane that was biding its time, leaning against the rear of the bench. Her smile widens as she hands it to House. "You did well, Greg."

"Tired," he mumbles, taking her hand and rising to his feet. He leans hard against his cane and tosses Wilson a glare.

"Thanks for visiting, Dr. Wilson," she says, walking alongside House as he lurches, shoulders hunched, toward the building.

The lump in Wilson's throat has grown to the size of an orange. He swallows against it, his eyes tearing as his gaze is wrenched toward the sky. The clouds are impossibly white, thick, bright and beautiful. For his viewing pleasure they have massed together to form a grand floating tower. Bits of it drift off into the ozone, like chimney smoke wafting off into the blue. He stares at it a moment longer, eyes growing wider as he takes it all in. Then he's off. A tear slips down his cheek as he runs...

"House!"

...and catches up with House just as Mamie pulls open the door.

"Go...away," House grumbles.

"House." Wilson is breathless. He doesn't quite know what to do with his hands. They light on his chest, the door handle, House's shoulder. "I...do."

"Go..." The hard light in House's eyes softens as his mouth falls open, as he tilts his head.

Wilson smiles, triumphant, catching his breath. "I remember."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It feels good to be back.

After six weeks in the Facility he had been declared fit to go. Armed with a small suitcase of clothing, a supply of meds, a card denoting his next appointment with Schiller, and the paperback copy of _One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest_ Nurse Myrna gave him, he was now officially an outpatient.

Wilson arrived at the appointed hour to chauffer him home but House insisted on driving. He was, after all, a free man.

That was yesterday and yesterday's gone.

Today, Monday, was the beginning of the work week, which made him happy.

_Cool, man, cool._

Sauntering into the diagnostics room like Mr. Cool, like Mr. Nothing-In-The-World-Can-Get-Me-Down was an empowering experience. His team seemed ready for the worst, each of them wearing that look of anxious anticipation. But they needn't have worried. He was fine.

He _is_ fine.

People treat you differently when you've just survived a stint in the loony bin. Nurses who formerly spurned him now offered him little smiles, their eyes sparkling with compassion. _That will change, once I really get rolling_, he mused, signing out for the day.

Yeah, it feels really good to be back.

Wilson joined him for dinner. After a short discussion, they decided on Italian takeout, Chicken Parm grinders and _Budweiser _in bottles. Their conversation never veered toward what transpired the afternoon Wilson visited the Facility. It was over, done, kaput. Ancient history. Time to move on.

House's Tivo was overflowing with Monster Truck Rallies, episodes of _The L Word_, WWF wrestling, Clint Eastwood films, travelogues. So much to choose from, so much to catch up on. House couldn't help sampling a little of this, a little of that, which drove Wilson to snatch the remote away in mid flick. But House had good upper body strength and long arms and it wasn't too much of a challenge for him to snag it back. "Nooo touch," he sang, waggling a finger at Wilson, while continuing to click, click, click away.

Wilson took off after they watched half of a documentary on the Cayman Islands (interspersed with the most provocative scenes from three_ L Word _episodes). A strange combination, House admitted to himself, but he was digging it, which okay because

_You. Are. Free._

Yeah.

He is alone now because he can be. No one is here to hand him his pills in a little cup, there is no plastic band around his wrist giving him identity. He knows who he is. Settling back on the sofa, he continues to flick through the channels, placing the mouth of the bottle to his lips to drain the last of his beer. He likes his apartment, enjoys the sense of comfort he feels here. His eyes drink in the wood floors, the piano, the desk, his PC, everything he missed.

_Happy_.

His gaze travels to the bookcase, then rises higher and higher, traveling above the texts, the journals, the biographies and novels, to where he keeps his emergency stash.

And there, coiled around itself atop the green box is something black and shiny and

_Unctuous._

It has green eyes.

House stares at it, mesmerized as the bottle falls from his fingers and clatters and clinks against the hardwood floor.

He swallows hard. The beer's sour aftertaste makes him cringe as those familiar little gold flecks begin to dance amid the green.

The eyes blink. They blink again.

_Freedom's a funny thing, old man. First you think you have it and the next thing you know...it's gone._

The thing shifts, seeming to make itself a smidge more comfortable.

It has settled in, here for the long haul.

Waiting...

...and watching.


End file.
